[Illustration: “Mr. Stokes, taking his
dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away.”]
“She’s twigged it all along,” he
said, with conviction. “You’ll have
to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best
thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it.
It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I was against
it from the first.”
[Illustration: Mixed relations]
The brig Elizabeth Barstow came up the river
as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the
Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the wheel,
was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate,
who was placing before him the hygienic, economical,
and moral advantages of total abstinence in language
of great strength but little variety.
“Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper,
finally.
The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley.
“Eat more?” he spluttered. “Yesterday
the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like
a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived
on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I ate I’m
going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore.
It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the
way ’e does.”
“The moment I can ship another cook he goes,”
said the skipper. “He seems busy, judging
by the noise.”
“I’m making him clean up everything, ready
for the next,” explained the mate, grimly.
“And he ’ad the cheek to tell me he’s
improving— improving!”
“He’ll go as soon as I get another,”
repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead.
“I don’t like being poisoned any more than
you do. He told me he could cook when I shipped
him; said his sister had taught him.”
The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind
by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the
cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection.
A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed
to elbow-grease.
The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way
daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth
at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a
deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest,
not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable
position and consoled itself with adjectives.
The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the
crew of the Elizabeth Barstow, after making
fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening
ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-lid
in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches
to his toilet.
A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention
of the skipper as he leaned against the side smoking.
It stopped just behind him, and turning round he found
himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the prettiest
girl he had ever seen.
“Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?” she
asked, with a smile.
“Jewell?” repeated the skipper. “Jewell?
Don’t know the name.”
