rp. But we doan't a-seem to
care for them so much. We're bred to patience, you see; and you're
bound to act up to your breedin'. That is it, sir; bred to patience."

"And has no doctor been out here yet?"

"What could he du? He can't fare to feel like us. When it comes a breeze
he wants a doctor hisself, and how would that suit?"

"Have you eaten anything?"

"Well, no, sir. I was in that pain, sir, and I didn't want to moither my
shipmets no more'n you, so I closes my teeth. It's the breed, sir--bred
to patience."

"Well, the skipper must find us something now, at any rate."

There was some cabbage growing rather yellow and stale, some rocky
biscuit, some vile coffee, some salt butter, and one delicious fish
called a "latchet." With a boldness worthy of the Victoria Cross, Lewis
set himself to broil that fish over the sulphurous fire. He cannot, of
course, compute the number of falls which he had; he only knows that he
imbued his very being with molten butter and fishy flavours. But he
contrived to make a kind of passable mess (of the fish as well as of his
clothing), and he fed his man with his own strong hand. He then gave him
a mouthful or two of sherry and water, and the simple fellow said--

"God bless you, sir! I can just close my eyes."

Reader, Lewis Ferrier's education is improving.

CHAPTER IV.

A NEAR THING.

Ferrier was anything but a fatalist, yet he had a happy and useful way
of taking short views of life. In times of extreme depression he used to
say to himself, "Things seem black just now, but I know when I get over
the trouble I shall look over the black gap of misery and try to imagine
what is on the other side." It is a good plan. Many a suicide would have
been averted if the self-slain beings had chosen to take a short view
instead of harbouring visions of huge banked-up troubles.

No young fellow was ever in a much more awkward position than that of
Ferrier. The _Haughty Belle_ smack, in spite of her highly fashionable
name, was one of the ramshackle tubs which still contrive to escape the
censure of the Board of Trade; and Bill Larmor, the skipper, skilful as
he was, could not do himself justice in a craft that wallowed like a
soaked log. Then poor Withers, the maimed man, was a constant care; all
the labour of two hands at the pumps was of little avail, and, last of
all, the unhappy little boy could hardly count at all as a help.

But the bricklayer's saying, "It's dogged