"You should see Whaup,--he's rather worse off than Friday. We have just landed at the Broomielaw, but I was obliged to leave Anthony in a tavern for fear we should be mobbed in the street. I'm off by the rail to Edinburgh, to get some decent toggery for us both. Lend me a pound-note, will you?" "Certainly--that's eleven, you recollect. But what's the meaning of all this? Where is the yacht?" "Safe--under twenty fathoms of dark blue water, at a place they call the Sneeshanish Islands. Catch me going out again, with Anthony as steersman!" "No doubt he is an odd sort of Palinurus. But when did this happen?" "Ten days ago. We were three days and nights upon the rock, with nothing to eat except two biscuits, raw mussels and tangle!" "Mercy on us! and how did you get off?" "In a kelp-boat from Harris. But I haven't time for explanation just now. Go down, like a good fellow, to the Broomielaw, No. 431--you will find Anthony enjoying himself with beef steaks and bottled stout, in the back parlour of the Cat and Bagpipes. I must refer you to him for the details." "One word more--you'll be back to the circuit?" "Decidedly. To-morrow morning: as soon as I can get my things together." "And the lady--What news of her?" The countenance of Strachan fell. "Ah, my dear friend! I wish you had not touched upon that string--you have set my whole frame a jarring. No trace of her--none--none! I fear I shall never see her more!" "Come! don't be down-hearted. One never can tell what may happen. Perhaps you may meet her sooner than you think." "You are a kind-hearted-fellow, Fred. But I've lost all hope. Nothing but a dreary existence is now before me, and--but, by Jupiter, there goes the starting bell!" Tom vanished, like Aubrey's apparition, with a melodious twang, and a perceptible odour of tar; and so, being determined to expiscate the matter, I proceeded towards the Broomielaw, and in due time became master of the locality of the Cat and Bagpipes. "Is there a Mr Whaup here?" I inquired of Mrs M'Tavish, the landlady, who was filling a gill-stoup at the bar. "Here you are, old chap!" cried the hilarious voice of Anthony from an inner apartment. "Turn to the right, steer clear of the scrubbing brushes, and help yourself to a mouthful of Guinness." I obeyed. Heavens, what a figure he was! His trowsers were rent both at the knees and elsewhere, and were kept together solely by means of whip-cord. His shirt had evidently not benefited by the removal of the excise duties upon soap, and was screened from the scrutiny of the beholder by an extempore paletot, fabricated out of sail-cloth, without the remotest apology for sleeves. Anthony, however, looked well in health, and appeared to be in tremendous spirits. "Tip us your fin, my old coxs'un!" said he, winking at me over the rim of an enormous pewter vessel which effectually eclipsed the lower segment of his visage. "Blessed if I ain't as glad to see you as one of Mother Carey's chickens in a squall."