The wedding-day found him resigned, but dazed. The morning air was crisp and chill, with a faint odour of dead leaves and the aromatic smell of chrysanthemums which decked the front garden. The house was as clean as a new pin, or the deck of the _Foam_, which, having been thoroughly scrubbed down in honour of the occasion, was now slowly drying in the sun. Down below, the crew, having finished their labours for the day, were anxiously attiring themselves in their Sunday best. The grizzled head of Ben popped out at the companion and sniffed heartily at the smell of wet deck. His coat was of black, and his new boots creaked deliciously as he slowly paced the deck and affected ignorance of the little cluster of heads at the forecastle hatch. He went below again, and a murmur, gentle but threatening, rose against Tim. “You wait,” said the youth, sharply. “If you’ve made me waste eighteenpence, Timmy,” said a stout A. B. named Jones, “the Lord ha’ mercy on you, ’cos I won’t.” The cook, who was clinging to the ladder with his head level with the deck, gave an excited gasp. “Tim’s all right,” he said; “look there.” The last words were jerked out of him by reason of the weight of his friends, who were now leaning on him, breathing heavily under the stress of strong excitement. Ben was on deck again, and in an obviously unconcerned manner was displaying a silk hat of great height to all who cared to look. The mate’s appearance alone, without the flags which dressed the schooner, would have indicated a festival. Three or four labourers sunning themselves on the quay were much impressed and regarded him stolidy; a fisherman, presuming upon the fact that they both earned their living on the water, ventured to address him. “Now, then,” said Jones, as he took something reverently from an empty bunk, “who’s going up fust?” “I ain’t,” said Tim. “Wot about you, cookie?” said Jones. “Well, wot about me?” demanded the other. “I thought p’r’aps you’d like to lead the way,” said Mr. Jones, mildly. “You thought wrong, then,” said the cook, shortly. “It was jist a compliment,” urged Mr. Jones. “I don’t like flattery,” said the cook; “never did.” Mr. Jones sighed and shook his head irresolutely. The other A.B. patted him on the back. “You look a fair bloomin’ treat,” he said, heartily. “You go up fust; you look as though you’ve slep’ in one a’most.” “None o’ your larks, you know,” remarked Mr. Jones, with suspicious sourness; “no backing out of it and leavin’ me there by myself.” There was a chorus of virtuous but profane indignation. It was so indignant that Mr. Jones apologised, and stood for some time regarding the article in his hand with the face of a small child eyeing a large powder. Then he clapped it on his head and went on deck.