see you, _particularly_, aboard the brig.” “Indeed, sir,” answered I, showing very little surprise, I daresay, gloomy as I felt; “then the sooner the better, I suppose.” “Why, yes,” said the lieutenant, seemingly confused lest he should meet my eye, “we’re anxious to make use of this breeze, you—you know, sir.” “Hadn’t Mr Collins—this gentleman—better take his traps with him, Lieutenant Moore?” said Finch, free and easy wise. “No, sir,” said the young officer, sternly, “we can spare time to send for them, if necessary; of course you will keep the Indiaman in the wind, sir, till the brig squares her mainyard.” I gave Finch a single look of sheer contempt, and swung myself down by the manropes from the gangway into the boat; the lieutenant followed me, and next minute we were pulling for the brig’s quarter. The moment I found myself out of the Seringapatam, however, my heart nigh-hand failed me, more especially at sight of the quarter-gallery window I had seen the light from, on the smooth of the swell, that first night we got to sea. I even began to think if there weren’t some way of passing myself clear off, without hauling in Westwood; but it wouldn’t do. Before I well knew, we were on board, and the lieutenant showing me down the after hatchway to the captain’s cabin. The captain was sitting with one foot upon the carronade in his outer cabin, looking through the port at the heavy Indiaman, as she slued about and plunged in the blue surge, with all sorts of ugly ropes hanging from her bows, dirty pairs of trousers towing clear of the water when she lifted, and rusty stains at her hawse-holes. A stout-built, hard-featured man he was, with bushy black eyebrows, and grizzled black hair and whiskers, not to speak of a queer, anxious, uneasy look in the keen of his eyes when he turned to me. However, he got half up on my coming in, and I saw he was lame a little of one foot, while he overhauled me all over with his eye. “I’m sorry to have to send for you in this way, sir,” said he, rather surprised at my rig, apparently—“curst sorry, sir, and no more about it; but I can’t help it, confound me—_must_ do my duty.” “Certainly, sir,” I said. “In fact,” said Captain Wallis, “the Admiral ordered us to see after you—_him_, that’s to say—at the Cape, you know.” “Ay, ay, sir,” said I, watching the Indiaman’s poop-nettings through the port over his head, as he sat down. “Pooh, pooh,” continued he, “you can’t be the man—just say you don’t belong to the service—confound it, I’ll pass you!” “Why, sir,” said I, “I can’t exactly say _that_.” “I hear you’re Westwood of the Orestes, though,” said he; “now I don’t ask you to say _no_, sir—but everybody knew the Orestes, and I don’t like the thing, I must say—so perhaps you’re able to swear _he_ is not aboard the Indiaman—just now, you know, sir, _just now_, eh?” This tack of his rather dumfoundered me, seeing the captain of the brig meant it well; but deuced unlucky