in the quiet of his cabin, he decided that the crew would not stand failure. “If we fail,” he said, “this gang will not try twice. No privateers will. And these aren’t the pick of the Kipe.” He felt that the cruise would fail. His forebodings obsessed him. When he walked the poop at nights, walking athwartships now, not fore and aft, lest the helmsman should attack him from behind, he was sure that he would never see home again. He was always imagining a place of noise and smoke, with himself falling forward on the sand, looking his last, shot in the body. The obsession made him more serious than usual. He borrowed a Testament from Perrin and read the last chapter. Perrin angered him by saying that the last chapter bored him to death. As for Stukeley, his senses were gratified; he asked for nothing more from the world. He had every reason to feel satisfied. He had not been arrested in Virginia, that was good; he had broken with his batter-pudding of a wife, that was better; and he was no longer tortured by the prigs of the cabin. He was messing now in the wardroom, with Cottrill and Ramage, visiting Mrs. Inigo openly, whenever he liked; that was best of all. Neither Margaret nor Perrin had spoken to him since he had bragged to them of having broken with Olivia, of having fooled them about her child. Cammock had told him that he was to leave the cabin precincts and that when they wanted him as an interpreter they would send for him; but that until then he would either lie low or go in irons. At the moment he was too pleased with his successes to regret his loss of power. He was content to lie low, and to refrain from offering insults to all who irritated him. He patched up a truce with Mr. Cottrill, whom he found to be good company. He made friends with Smut, the ship’s cat, and taught one of her kittens to walk on bottle-mouths. He made friends with several of the men of war, who had their mess without the wardroom. He would sing “Old Rose” and “Twankydillo” to them, in the fine bass voice of which he was so vain. Like most seafaring men, the privateers thought much of a fine singer. They used to hang about the wardroom door after supper, to hear him singing quietly to himself, going over his trills and gurgles. He had but to come out into the ’tween-decks to find himself a popular idol. Men would rise up from their chests, with real courtesy, as he came among them. If there were singers there they became silent suddenly, tale-tellers ceased in their stories. There came a low murmur of “Good evening, sir. Good evening, Mr. Stukeley. Will you sit down, sir? Are we past the Serranas yet, d’ye know, sir?” till he was entrapped among them. As he did not know sailors, he took all this to be a tribute to his good looks, to his fine physique, to his manner, to his taking conversation. He used to get them to tell him of their lives on the coast, believing that it was a kind of life which might please himself. He inquired also of the life in the