t with my friend the Mate. He is already
entrenched behind the pewter dome, Nicholas gliding round giving the
final touch of art to the preparations. The subject of skinned rats
has vanished to make room for the serious business of his life.

"Good-mornin', Mr. McAlnwick. Sit there! We are alone to-day, as ye
see. Nicholas!"

Nicholas is a believer in ritual. He is tolling his little brass
hand-bell just as though everyone was here. In a minute he reappears.

"Sir?"

"Is Mr. Hammerton aboard?" A snigger from John Thomas, installed _pro
tem._ in the pantry as the Steward's aide-de-camp.

"'S in de galley, mister."

"Does he want any breakfast?"

"No, sir. 'S 'sleep in de galley." Another snigger.

"What's the matter with that boy?" thunders my friend the Mate,
lifting the dome from ham and eggs.

"He is merely cursed with a sense of humour, Mr. Honna," I observe,
and we avoid conversational rock and shoals until we are ensconced in
his private berth.

"The fact is, Mr. McAlnwick, Mr. Hammerton's a very foolish young
feller. Help yourself to some tobacco. Knowin' as I do that when he
went ashore last night he had twenty-six pounds ten in his cash
pocket, I wonder he isn't lyin' at the bottom o' the dock instead of
in the galley. He will not bank his surplus. And he _will_ get drunk."

"What's at the bottom of it all, Mr. Honna?"

"I'll show ye!" With a hoarse whisper he rises, tip-toes swiftly along
the corridor to the Second Officer's room, and returns with a
photograph.

Baby! Is she another milestone nearer to Alsatia, then? My pipe
remains unlit as I gaze at the cheap provincial photograph of a girl
with large eyes and a sensuous mouth.

Mr. Honna pushes his cap back and stares at me.

"What! D'ye know her?"

"It's Baby," I answer, laying the thing down. "Baby!"

"He's engaged to her."

"Since when?"

"Since--Gawd knows--last Monday, I believe."

I reach for the matches, and recount to the Mate my knowledge of Baby.
His nose wrinkles up, his eyes diminish to steel-blue points of fire,
and he nods his head slowly to my tale.

"Same old yarn. Oh, Mr. McAlnwick, are there not queer things come in
with the tide? Now listen, while I tell ye. 'Tis what they all do.
They dangle round bars, all at loose ends, they get their master's
tickets, and they marry barmaids. Then when the command comes along,
the woman keeps the man down in the mud. 'Twas with me, too. I was
engaged to a Nova Scotia girl--