The mate walked off fuming, and to his other duties added that of inspector of pots and pans, a condition of things highly offensive to the cook, inasmuch as certain culinary arrangements of his, only remotely connected with cleanliness, came in for much unskilled comment. The overworked crew went ashore at the earliest possible moment after their arrival in London, in search of recuperative draughts. Ben watched them a trifle wistfully as they moved off, and when Nibletts soon after followed their example without inviting him to join him in a social glass of superior quality, smiled mournfully as he thought of the disadvantages of rank. He sat for some time smoking in silence, monarch of all he surveyed, and then, gazing abstractedly at the silent craft around him, fell into a pleasant dream, in which he saw himself in his rightful position as master of the _Foam_, and Nibletts, cashiered for drunkenness, coming to him for employment before the mast. His meditations were disturbed by a small piece of coal breaking on the deck, at which he looked lazily, until, finding it followed by two other pieces, he reluctantly came to the conclusion that they were intended for him. A fourth piece, better aimed, put the matter beyond all reasonable doubt, and, looking up sharply, he caught the watchman in the act of launching the fifth. “Hullo, old ’un,” said George, cheerfully, “I thought you was asleep.” “You thought wrong, then,” said the mate, sourly; “don’t you do that ag’in.” “Why, did I ’urt you?” said the other, surprised at his tone. “Next time you want to chuck coal at anybody,” continued Ben, with dignity, “pick out one o’ the ’ands; mates don’t like ’aving coal chucked at ’em by watchmen.” “Look who we are,” gasped the petrified George. “Look who we are,” he repeated, helplessly. “Look who we are.” “Keep your place, watchman,” said the mate, severely; “keep your place, and I’ll keep mine.” The watchman regarded him for some time in genuine astonishment, and then, taking his old seat on the post, thrust his hands in his pockets, and gave utterance to this shocking heresy, “Mates ain’t nothing.” “You mind your business, watchman,” said the nettled Ben, “and I’ll mind mine.” “You don’t know it,” retorted the other, breathing heavily; “be—sides, you don’t look like a mate. I wouldn’t chuck coal at a _real_ mate.” He said no more, but sat gazing idly up and down the river with a face from which all expression had been banished, except when at intervals his gaze rested upon the mate, when it lit up with an expression of wonder and joy which made the muscles ache with the exercise. He was interrupted in this amusement by the sound of footsteps and feminine voices behind him; the indefatigable Tippings were paying another of their informal visits, and, calmly ignoring his presence, came to the edge of the jetty and discussed ways and means of boarding the schooner.