Long before midnight, Butter-faced Bob, looking in, well satisfied, beheld his customers of the afternoon now transformed into actual goods and chattels, bales of bone and sinew and courage, that he could sell, literally by weight, at an enormous price, and for ready money. While he turned the light of his candle from one sleeper to another, he was running over a mental sum comprising all the elementary rules of arithmetic. He added the several prices of the recumbent articles in guineas. He subtracted the few shillings’-worth of liquor they had consumed. He multiplied by five the hush-money he expected, over and above, from the purchaser, and finally, he divided the total, in anticipation, between himself, his wife, the tax-gatherer, and the most pressing of his creditors. When he had finished these calculations, he returned to the parlour, where Captain George sat brooding over the remains of his punch, the late enlisted recruit having retired to pack up his fiddle and the very small stock of clothes he possessed. Their bargain was soon concluded, although there was some little difficulty about delivering the goods. Notwithstanding, perhaps in consequence of, the many cases of oppression that had stained the last half of the preceding century, a strong reaction had set in against anything in the shape of “kidnapping”; and a press-gang, even for a king’s ship, was not likely to meet with toleration in the streets of a seaport town. Moreover, suspicions had already been aroused as to the character of ‘The Bashful Maid.’ A stricter discipline seemed to be observed on board that wicked-looking craft than was customary even in the regular service, and this unusual rigour was accounted for by the lawless conduct of her “liberty-men” when they _did_ come ashore. Nobody knew better than her Captain that, under the present aspect of political affairs in London, it would be wise to avoid notice by the authorities. The only thing he dreaded on earth and sea was a vision, by which he was haunted daily, till he could get all his stores shipped. It represented a sloop-of-war detached from the neighbouring squadron in the Downs, coming round the Point, dropping her anchor in the harbour, and sending a lieutenant and boat’s crew on board to overhaul his papers, and, maybe, summarily prevent his beautiful craft from standing out to sea. Neither was Butter-faced Bob rash or indiscreet where his own interests were affected. Using a metaphor he had picked up from his customers, it was his boast that he could “keep a bright look-out, and steer small” with the best of them; and he now impressed on Captain George, with great earnestness, the necessity of secrecy and caution in getting the three fresh hands down to the quay and tumbling them up the side of the brigantine.