George Mulross Demaine’s only reply was to feel inside his coat for the place where pockets are often constructed for the well-to-do, but where no pocket seemed to exist. He made five or six good digs for it, but it was not there. He looked up huntedly and said: “Wait a minute.” He put his hand into his waistcoat. There again there was no receptacle, but that which should have held his watch--and even the young idealism of the Prime Minister permitted him to wonder why no watch was there. Then George did what I hope no member of the governing class has ever done before--he felt in his trousers pocket, and thence he pulled out a bit of paper. “Yes,” he said, concealing the writing from them, “You’re quite right. I _was_ blown out to sea. I had a”--(here he peered closely at the paper and apparently could not make out a word.) “Oh yes,” he said, “a terrible time.” His diction was singularly monotonous. “I-thought-I-should-never-have-survived-that-terrible-night. A-foreign-ship-passed-me-but-the-scoundrels-left-me-to-my-fate. I-was-nearly-dead-when-under-the-first-rays-of-morning-I-saw-the- British-flag-and-my-heart-leaped-within-me.” Edward, though not usually impetuous, bereft him of the document, and as he did so the Prime Minister saw the square firm characters. “Good lord!” shouted the Premier, “It’s Bill!” And it _was_ the writing of William Bailey. “William’s been very good to me, if you mean that,” said Demaine reproachfully. The Prime Minister burst into the first hearty laugh he had enjoyed in fifteen years. After all, men like Bailey were of some use in the world! In spite of Dimmy’s obvious choler, with the tears of laughter in his eyes, and interrupted by little screams of merriment, the Prime Minister completed the reading. “‘I bit my arm, I sucked the blood, I cried “A sail! a sail!”; and in less time than it takes to read this, hearty English hands were tugging at the oars.’ (“Oh Edward, Edward!” gasped the exhausted man, and when he had recovered his breath continued:) ‘With the tenderness almost of a woman he lifted ...’ (“Who lifted you?” he asked between his shrieks and wagging his forefinger to George Demaine. “Oh George, who lifted you?”) ... ‘He lifted me on board the good ship _Lily_, and when I told him of the treacherous action of the foreigners, muttered “Scoundrel” between his teeth. But a man has naught to fear when the brave hearts of his countrymen are his shield. They landed me at Lowestoft, pressing into my hands their petty savings, and left me with three hearty cheers that did me almost as much good as to feel my feet once more upon British soil.’” The Prime Minister laid his head upon the table, wagged it gently from side to side, uttered a series of incongruous sounds, and very nearly broke down. George Mulross Demaine was exceedingly angry. “It may seem very funny to you,” he began, “but----” “Don’t, George!” said the Premier, going off again, “Don’t!”