My friend the Chief Officer is putting fresh clothes on his bed. Clean sheets and blankets and a snowy counterpane ("All sorts o' people come in to have a chat, Mr. McAlnwick") are arranged with due care. He is brisk to-night, is my good friend, having no log to modify this time, and nothing else on hand for a day or two. Photos dusted, ports opened, tobacco and whiskey duly placed between us, he climbs into his nest and proceeds to converse. A sort of "_Tabagie_" or tobacco parliament, such as was once in force at Potsdam. "Sure," he snorts, "'twas blackmail the baggage was after, ye can take it from _me_, and--keep the door open when she's sorting the things." Being a young man, I wait, seated sedately on the settee, to hear more concerning "the baggage," who is, let me explain, an itinerant _blanchisseuse des équipages_ of equivocal repute. The Mate reaches for his pipe. "Would ye believe it, Mr. McAlnwick? She comes in here, while I'm lying in me bunk, closes the door, and comes up to me. Says she, 'Oh, Mr. Mate, I'm very unhappy!' and puts her arms round me neck, in spite--in spite of all I could do, and falls to screamin'!" "'Slack back,' says I, 'or ye'll be the most unhappy woman in this town.' An' then Nicholas he puts his head in." "The Steward!" I ejaculate. "The same. Ye see, mister, the baggage, she thought the Old Man was aboard, and--she was goin' to make out a case! Says Nicholas, 'Oh, my words! I'll fetch police!' An' away he cuts." "How embarrassing!" The blue eyes of my friend the Mate are twinkling, his face is screwed up, and his nose is wrinkled all the way up. He is more like my old Headmaster than ever. "'Twas so, Mr. McAlnwick--'twas so. Ye see, my besettin' sin is sympathy. I feel sorry for the baggage. She has a har-rd time of it, and the ends don't meet--won't meet, nohow. But, as I said, 'Consider the situation, Mrs. Ambree.' 'Oh, Mr. Mate,' says she, 'will he fetch the police?' 'Possibly,' says I, 'if he finds one on the quay.' And she began cryin' fit to break me heart." To my surprise, the nose is still wrinkled; he breathes through his nose in a way that means "Ye don't know what's comin'." "'Oh, I hope he won't be so cruel, Mr. Mate,' says she, cryin' as I said. 'For why?' says I, speakin' stern. 'You are an immoral wumman, Mrs. Ambree.' 'Yes,' says she, 'I know that, Mr. Mate, I know that; but it would be har-rd on me if he was to fetch Jim aboard for me.' 'Jim?' says I. 'Who in thunder's Jim, Mrs. Ambree?' ''Tis my husband,' she sobs. 'He's on night duty in this dock, an' I'm a ruined soul if he finds out.' And she set down there, Mr. McAlnwick, just where you're settin' and burst into floods o' tears." "Dear me!" I observe. And the nose is one mass of humoursome corrugations.