er which was thereafter offered by the Admiral of the fleet was
still shorter, very much to the point, and replete with nautical
phrases, but an uncalled-for petition, which followed that, was briefest
of all. It came in low but distinct tones from a dark corner of the
hold, and had a powerful effect on the audience; perhaps, also, on the
Hearer of prayer. It was merely--"God have mercy on me."

Whatever influence might have resulted from the preaching and the prayer
on that occasion, there could be no doubt whatever as to the singing.
It was tremendous! The well-known powers of Wesleyan throats would have
been lost in it. Saint Paul's Cathedral organ could not have drowned
it. Many of the men had learned at least the tunes of the more popular
of Sankey's hymns, first from the Admiral and a few like-minded men,
then from each other. Now every man was furnished with an
orange-coloured booklet. Some could read; some could not. It mattered
little. Their hearts had been stirred by that young student, or rather
by the student's God. Their voices, trained to battle with the tempest,
formed a safety-valve to their feelings. "The Lifeboat" was,
appropriately, the first hymn chosen. Manx Bradley led with a voice
like a trumpet, for joy intensified his powers. Fred Martin broke forth
with tremendous energy. It was catching. Even Groggy Fox was overcome.
With eyes shut, mouth wide open, and book upside down, he absolutely
howled his determination to "leave the poor old stranded wreck, and pull
for the shore."

But skipper Fox was not the only man whose spirit was touched on that
occasion. Many of the boats clung to the mission vessel till the day
was nearly past, for their crews were loath to part. New joys, new
hopes, new sensations had been aroused. Before leaving, Dick Martin
took John Binning aside, and in a low but firm voice said--"you're
right, sir. A grievous sin _does_ lie heavy on me. I robbed Mrs
Mooney, a poor widdy, of her little bag o' savin's--twenty pounds it
was."

The latter part of this confession was accidentally overheard by Bob
Lumsden. He longed to hear more, but Bob had been taught somehow that
eavesdropping is a mean and dishonourable thing. With manly
determination, therefore, he left the spot, but immediately sought and
found his little friend Pat Stiver, intent on relieving his feelings.

"What d'ee think, Pat?" he exclaimed, in a low whisper, but with
indignation in his eye an