The mate was just talking to the fisherman about an uncle of his (born since his promotion) who had commanded a brig, when his voice failed him, and he gazed open-mouthed at a stout seaman who had just come up on deck. On the stout seaman’s face was the look of one who sees a vision many miles off; on the stout seaman’s head was a high hat of antique pattern which had suffered in the brushing. To avoid the mate’s eye he folded his arms and, leaning over the side, gazed across the river. Words trembled on the mate’s lips, but they died away in a squeak as a little top-hatted procession of three issued coyly from the forecastle and, ranging itself beside Mr. Jones, helped him to look across the river. “I never did,” said the fisherman. “What _are_ we a-coming to?” The mate did not stay to inform him. He walked hastily to the quartette and, bursting with rage, asked Jones what he meant by it. “Mean by wot, sir?” asked Jones, in surprise. “Top-hats,” said the mate, choking. The four turned and regarded him stolidly, keeping as close together as possible for the sake of moral support and the safety of their head-gear. “For the weddin’, sir,” said Jones, as though that explained everything. “You take ’em off,” said the mate, sharply. “I won’t let you wear ’em.” “I beg your pardin,” said Jones, with great politeness, “we got these ’ere ’ats for the weddin’, an’ we’re a-goin’ to wear ’em.” He took the offending article off and brushed it tenderly with his coat-sleeve, while the furious mate looked assault and battery at the other three. Tim, whose hat came well down over his eyes, felt comparatively safe; but the cook, conscious that his perched lightly on the top of his head, drew back a pace. Then he uttered an exclamation as Captain Nibletts, who was officiating as best man, came hurriedly down the cliff. “Hats?” said the little skipper, disengaging himself from the mate’s grasp, as he came on board. “Yes, I don’t mind.” “Wot about Cap’n Barber?” demanded the mate, impressively. “If they was pudding-basins ’e wouldn’t mind,” said Nibletts, testily; “he’s that nervous ’e don’t know what ’e’s doing hardly. He was raving like a madman for five minutes cos ’e couldn’t fasten his collar, and then I found he’d forgot to put his shirt on. He don’t care.” He hurried down to the cabin and then came bustling up again. His small face was strained with worry, and the crew eyed him respectfully as he came forward and dealt out white satin favours. “Cap’n Barber’ll be all right with you looking arter ’im, sir,” said Jones, with strong conviction. “That he will,” said the cook, nodding. “There’s some whisky in a bottle in my locker, cook,” said Nibletts, dancing about nervously; “give the hands one drink each, cook. Only one, mind.” The men thanked him, and with kindly eyes watched him go ashore. The cook went down for the whisky, and Tim, diving into the forecastle, brought up four mugs.