t time she comes in."

"That's the rumour, Mr. McAlnwick. _I_ think there's something in it,
for me wife tells me that Mrs. Alexander was lookin' at a house in
Cathay only last week. 'A house,' says she, 'that will be not less
than thirty pounds a year.' That means _Petruchio_, a big ship."

The above personage, you see, is the Chief, the man who wore elevators
in his boots.

"But why should he move into a larger house, Mr. Honna?"

"To keep up his position in the world, Mr. McAlnwick. 'Tis a big
responsibility, ye see. His youngster will now go to a--a scholastic
academy while mine remain on the rates."

"How are they, Mr. Honna?"

"Fine, Mr. McAlnwick, fine! Jacko passed I don't know how many exams.,
and he's teaching the curate to play the organ. Hallo!"

There is a knock at the door, and I rise to lift the hook which holds
it. A stout man with a short moustache and a double chin--Tenniel's
Bismarck to the life--touches his cap. It is the night watchman.

"Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Honna, but I don't feel well, sir, and I wanted
to know, sir, if you'd mind my goin' to get a drop o' brandy, sir?"

"Away ye go, then."

"Thank you, sir. Shan't be long, sir. Only----"

"Have ye any money?"

"Oh, _yes_, sir. Thank you all the same, sir."

I close the door, Bismarck hastens away for brandy, and the Mate's
nose is covered with wrinkles. Whereby I am at liberty to conclude
that there is _bunkum_ in the air. I cough.

"See that man?" he says. I nod.

"Skipper of a three-masted bark once."

"Yes?"

"He was!"

"What brought him down to night watchman at thirty shillings a week?"

"Bad health. He was always feelin' unwell, and he was tradin' between
Liverpool and Bordeaux."

The Mate nods at me to emphasise his words, while I look at him
gravely.

"An' now," adds my friend the Mate, "I must turn out and see he comes
back."

"I'll do that--don't bother. So he's one of the derelicts?"

"His brother was another. Died mad, over at Landore. Ever hear of Mad
Robin? Well, he was Chief of a boat carryin' cotton to Liverpool.
Comin' home from Savannah, dropped her propeller in mid-ocean."

"Shipped his spare one?" Mr. Honna laughs shortly.

"Didn't carry spares in that company, Mr. McAlnwick. No, he made one."

"Made one! How?"

"Out of a block of hornbeam and the plates of one of his bulkheads.
Knocked about for a month waitin' for fine weather, tipped the ship,
fixed his tin-pot screw on, and started 'slo