There was an awkward pause, during which the fireman, with one eye peeping furtively from beyond the rim of a quart pot, saw both Joe and the cook kick Mr. Green’s foot to call his attention to the fact that his words might be misconstrued by another member of the party. “I ’ate toffs,” he said, deliberately, as he placed his mug on the counter. “They’re all right when you know ’em, Charlie,” said Joe, who was averse to having the evening spoiled at that early hour. “A real toff’s bad enough,” continued the fireman, “but a himitation one—pah!” He buried his face in the pewter again, and laughed discordantly. “You go aboard and wash you face, Tommy,” repeated Mr. Green. “I should think you’d find plenty o’ soap in Charlie’s bunk.” “Do you know what you want?” demanded the fireman, regarding him fixedly. “I know what you want,” said Mr. Green, with a supercilious smile. “Oh! Wot?” said the other. The polite seaman rose to his feet and watched him carefully. “A banjo,” he replied. It was not the reply according to time-honoured formula, and Charlie, who was expecting something quite different, was at no pains to hide his perplexity. “_A banjo?_” he repeated, slowly, “a banjo—a ban——?” Light came to him suddenly, and he flew at Mr. Green with his fists whirling. In a second the bar was in an uproar, and the well-meant and self-preservative efforts of Joe and the cook to get the combatants into the street were frustrated by people outside blocking up the doors. They came out at last, and Fraser, who was passing, ran over just in time to save Mr. Green, who was doing his best, from the consequences of a somewhat exaggerated fastidiousness. The incident, however, afforded a welcome distraction, and having seen Mr. Green off in the direction of the steamer, while the fireman returned to the public-house, he bent his steps homewards and played a filial game at cards with his father before retiring. They sailed for London the following afternoon, Mr. Green taking a jaundiced view of the world from a couple of black eyes, while the fireman openly avowed that only the economical limitations of Nature prevented him from giving him more. Fraser, a prey to gentle melancholy, called them to order once or twice, and then left them to the mate, a man whose talent for ready invective was at once the admiration and envy of his peers. The first night in London he spent on board, and with pencil and paper sat down to work out the position of the _Golden Cloud_. He pictured her with snowy pinions outspread, passing down Channel. He pictured Poppy sitting on the poop in a deck-chair and Flower coming as near as his work would allow, exchanging glances with her. Then he went up on deck, and, lighting his pipe, thought of that never-to-be-forgotten night when Poppy had first boarded the _Foam_.