"Aye, 'tis so," continues the Chief Officer, pouring out "Black and White" for two. "An' at that moment in comes Nicholas, his face serious-like, and says he, 'Mrs. Ambree, ye're wanted.' An' she goes out wi' him, like Mary Queen o' Scots to the block!" "Mr. Honna, I'm surprised!" "Not a bit of it, McAlnwick, not a bit of it! At first I thought Nicholas had been a fool and fetched a policeman, but Nicholas is no fool, as ye've no doubt observed. Still, I got out an' put on me pants and went into the cabin. Passin' the Steward's door I heard voices. Enterin' the Steward's room, I saw him an' the baggage splittin' a Guinness and carryin' on! 'Twas scandalous, Mr. McAlnwick. To be done by a wire-haired, leather-skinned old reprobate like Nicholas. 'Twas a clear case, for his wife does all his washin' up at Bridgend." "I am shocked, Mr. Honna." "Ye may well be. I was too. Pass the water-bottle, Mr. McAlnwick." "I hear," I observe, "I hear Alexander the Great is to have the _Petruchio_ next time she comes in." "That's the rumour, Mr. McAlnwick. _I_ think there's something in it, for me wife tells me that Mrs. Alexander was lookin' at a house in Cathay only last week. 'A house,' says she, 'that will be not less than thirty pounds a year.' That means _Petruchio_, a big ship." The above personage, you see, is the Chief, the man who wore elevators in his boots. "But why should he move into a larger house, Mr. Honna?" "To keep up his position in the world, Mr. McAlnwick. 'Tis a big responsibility, ye see. His youngster will now go to a--a scholastic academy while mine remain on the rates." "How are they, Mr. Honna?" "Fine, Mr. McAlnwick, fine! Jacko passed I don't know how many exams., and he's teaching the curate to play the organ. Hallo!" There is a knock at the door, and I rise to lift the hook which holds it. A stout man with a short moustache and a double chin--Tenniel's Bismarck to the life--touches his cap. It is the night watchman. "Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Honna, but I don't feel well, sir, and I wanted to know, sir, if you'd mind my goin' to get a drop o' brandy, sir?" "Away ye go, then." "Thank you, sir. Shan't be long, sir. Only----" "Have ye any money?" "Oh, _yes_, sir. Thank you all the same, sir." I close the door, Bismarck hastens away for brandy, and the Mate's nose is covered with wrinkles. Whereby I am at liberty to conclude that there is _bunkum_ in the air. I cough. "See that man?" he says. I nod. "Skipper of a three-masted bark once." "Yes?" "He was!" "What brought him down to night watchman at thirty shillings a week?" "Bad health. He was always feelin' unwell, and he was tradin' between Liverpool and Bordeaux." The Mate nods at me to emphasise his words, while I look at him gravely. "An' now," adds my friend the Mate, "I must turn out and see he comes back." "I'll do that--don't bother. So he's one of the derelicts?"