“I’ll tell you what _I_ make of her,” said Cammock. “She was built in France, that’s easy seen, and she was bought or taken at least three years back. She was re-masted at Deptford, and her captain thinks the masting’s spoiled her. She’s been in the West Indies within a year, and there she’d a pile of hard times. Lost her topmasts for one of them. Then she came home, and took a big nob of some sort up the Mediterranean, for political reasons, and in a hurry, with a scratch crew. She’s made a quick passage, and the captain’s cabin is taken up with ladies, probably one big sort of a duchess or that. The Government is short of funds, and the wind’s going to draw more westerly. Her lieutenant is a Devonshire man. And I bet I know her captain’s name and what her hands think of him. That’s what I make of her.” “How d’you know all that?” said Perrin. “Every man to his trade,” said Cammock. He felt that he had retrieved the honour lost over the cows. At this moment four bells were made; the cabin steward rang them to the cabin supper. They found the table heaped with dainties; for Perrin and Cammock had foraged ashore together, so that the last night in port might be merry. Punch, strawberries, and a pigeon-pie. Captain Margaret proposed the conundrum, why strawberries would be considered flippant among the bakemeats at a funeral dinner. Captain Cammock gorged the conundrum, hook and all. III. OUTWARDS “And we are bound to New Barbary With all our whole ship’s company.” _Captain Glen._ “I have a vessel riding forth, gentlemen, And I can tell you she carries a letter of mart. What say you now to make you all adventurers? You shall have fair dealing, that I’ll promise you.” _A Cure for a Cuckold._ After supper, the party went on deck again, to see the last of their country. The two mates, who had their cabins in the after ’tween-decks, where they messed, had made all ready for getting under way. The hands walked to and fro about the fo’c’s’le, waiting for the order. The last bum-boat had shoved off for the shore, having sold her last onion and last box of red herrings. Snatches of song came aft to the poop. It was slack water; the sea seemed to be marking time. Already, further up the harbour, a schooner had swung athwart the stream. One or two boats were hoisting their foresails, ready to catch the first ebb. The sun was still strong in the heavens; there was more than an hour of day to come. “We may as well up hook,” said Cammock, “if you’ll say the word, sir.” “All ready, captain,” said Margaret. “We’ll go as soon as you like.” “Right,” said Cammock, bustling forward to the poop-rail. “Hands up anchor, bosun.”