eads rigid in four-inch
collars, were hanging about Lady Lesbia's low bamboo chair, and
administering obsequiously to the small necessities of the tea-table.

It was while this tea-table business was going on that Mr. Smithson took
the opportunity of setting his mind at rest, were it possible, as to the
merits of Captain Wilkinson. Among his visitors this afternoon there was
the owner of three or four racing yachts--a man renowned for his
victories, at home and abroad.

'I think you knew something of my captain, Wilkinson, before I engaged
him,' said Smithson, with assumed carelessness.

'I know every skipper on board every boat in the squadron,' answered his
friend. 'A good fellow, Wilkinson--thoroughly honest fellow.'

'Honest; oh yes, I know all about that. But how about his seamanship?
His certificates were wonderfully good, but they are not everything.

'Everything, my dear fellow,' cried the other; 'they are next to
nothing. But I believe Wilkinson is a tolerable sailor.'

This was not encouraging.

'He has never been unlucky, I believe.'

'My dear Smithson, you are a great authority in the City, but you are
not very well up in the records of the yachting world, or you would know
that your Captain Wilkinson was skipper on the _Orinoco_ when she ran
aground on the Chesil Bank, coming home from Cherbourg Regatta, fifteen
lives lost, and the yacht, in less than half an hour, ground to powder.
That was rather a bad case, I remember; for though it was a tempestuous
night, the accident would never have happened if Wilkinson had not
mistaken the lights. So you see his Trinity House papers didn't prevent
his going wrong.'

Good heavens! This was the strongest confirmation of Montesma's charge.
The man was a stupid man, an incapable man, a man to whose intelligence
and care human life should never be trusted. A fig for his honesty! What
would honesty be worth in a hurricane off the Chesil Beach? What would
honesty serve a ship spitted on the Jailors off Jersey? Montesma was
right. If the _Cayman_ was to make a trip to St. Malo she must be
navigated by competent men. Horace Smithson hated foreign sailors,
copper-faced ruffians, with flashing black eyes which seemed to threaten
murder, did you but say a rough word to them; sleek, raven-haired
scoundrels, with bowie-knives in their girdles, ready for mutiny. But,
after all, life is worth too much to be risked for a prejudice, a
sentiment.

Perhaps that St. Malo bu