"That’s about our job," growled Jarvis. "Better blow up yer swimmin’-collar when you gets aboard, and tie it around yer bloomin’ neck." "A precious lot of good they collars be—with sea-boots and oilskins on, and the water as cold as charity." "Nobody’s askin’ you to wear it. When you feels you wants to drown, quick, just ’and it over to me—I don’t. Dare say you ain’t got no one to miss yer; I ’ave—a missus and six kids," growled the coxswain. Just then the trap hatch of the stokehold flapped up, and out of the small square opening emerged the bare head of the stoker of the picket-boat—an old, grey-headed Naval Reserve man, who actually wore gold spectacles, the effect of which on his coal-begrimed face was very quaint. He looked round him in a patient, dignified manner, and sniffed at the wind and rain. There was a shout from the top of the steps, and Mr. Orpen, with his hands to his mouth, called down: "Keep out of the rain, Fletcher—don’t be an ass!" The old man did not hear; but one of the boat’s crew for’ard bawled out to him: "’Ere, close down yer blooming ’atch—chuck it, grandpa—shut yer face in—the Orphan’s a-singing out to yer—’e’s nuts on yer ’ealth, ’e is." The old stoker, wiping his rain-spotted spectacles, meekly obeyed, pulled the hatch over his head, and disappeared from view. Then the postman, with his big, leather letter-bag, clattered down, splashing the puddles on the steps. "The Cap’n’s coming at last," he said, and stowed himself away under the fore peak. Down came Mr. Orpen, jumped aboard, and took the steering-wheel. A moment later, and after him came the tall, gaunt figure of the Captain, the rain trickling off the gold oak-leaves on the peak of his cap, dripping off his long, thin nose and running down his yellowish-red moustache and pointed beard. His greatcoat was glistening with raindrops, and his trousers beneath it were soaked and sticking to his thin shins. "I forgot to bring my waterproof," he said. "I’m not late, am I?" and nodding cheerfully, he stepped into the boat. Mr. Orpen saluted. "Shall I carry on, sir?" The Captain nodded again; Jarvis shouted out orders; the boat’s bows were shoved off, the engines thumped, and the picket-boat, starting on her stormy passage to Spithead, bumped the steps with her stern—the last time, had she known it, that she would ever touch England. The crew dived down below under the fore peak and shut the hatch on top of them, for they knew well what was coming. It came right enough.