Emmeline bent down, and fetching her parcel from under the seat, held
it in her lap.

As they drew nearer, the outlines of the ship became more apparent. She
was a small brig, with stump topmasts, from the spars a few rags of
canvas fluttered. It was apparent soon to the old sailor's eye what was
amiss with her.

"She's derelick, bad cess to her!" he muttered; "derelick and done
for--just me luck!"

"I can't see any people on the ship," cried Dick, who had crept
forward to the bow. "Daddy's not there."

The old sailor let the boat off a point or two, so as to get a view of
the brig more fully; when they were within twenty cable lengths or so
he unstepped the mast and took to the sculls.

The little brig floated very low on the water, and presented a mournful
enough appearance; her running rigging all slack, shreds of canvas
flapping at the yards, and no boats hanging at her davits. It was easy
enough to see that she was a timber ship, and that she had started a
butt, flooded herself and been abandoned.

Paddy lay on his oars within a few strokes of her. She was floating as
placidly as though she were in the harbour of San Francisco; the green
water showed in her shadow, and in the green water waved the tropic
weeds that were growing from her copper. Her paint was blistered and
burnt absolutely as though a hot iron had been passed over it, and over
her taffrail hung a large rope whose end was lost to sight in the water.

A few strokes brought them under the stern. The name of the ship was
there in faded letters, also the port to which she belonged.

"Shenandoah. Martha's Vineyard."

"There's letters on her," said Mr Button. "But I can't make thim out.
I've no larnin'."

"I can read them," said Dick.

"So c'n I," murmured Emmeline.

"S-H-E-N-A-N-D-O-A-H," spelt Dick.

"What's that?" enquired Paddy.

"I don't know," replied Dick, rather downcastedly.

"There you are!" cried the oarsman in a disgusted manner, pulling the
boat round to the starboard side of the brig. "They pritind to tache
letters to childer in schools, pickin' their eyes out wid book-readin',
and here's letters as big as me face an' they can't make hid or tail of
them--be dashed to book-readin'!"

The brig had old-fashioned wide channels, regular platforms; and she
floated so low in the water that they were scarcely a foot above the
level of the dinghy.

Mr Button secured the boat by passing the painter through a channel
plate, t