"Very good, sir," replied Frank Adams; and, after the necessary interval of heaving the log-ship over the side to leeward and counting the knots on the line while the fourteen-second glass held by the quartermaster was running out, he sang out "She's going nearly ten, sir." "Ah!" muttered Captain Farmer, who had come down the poop-ladder and was waiting for the news before returning to his cabin, as he passed the marine sentry before disappearing within the sliding door, expressing his thoughts aloud, "That's better, much better--I thought she could do it with this wind!" It was a beautiful afternoon; and, from its being Sunday, several of the wardroom officers came on deck after luncheon, having nothing especial to do below. Amongst the lot were Dr Nettleby and Mr Nipper, the paymaster. I also observed on the poop the Reverend Mr Smythe and "Joe" Jellaby, who had contrived to secure sufficient snoozing, during the odd moments when he was off duty since the morning, to make up for the sleep he had lost by going to the admiral's ball and there meeting the witching houri of his dreams, "that chawming gurl," who had subsequently prevented him from taking his proper rest when he came aboard in the small hours of the middle watch. The chaplain seemed to have taken a fancy to "Joe," for he stuck on to him as soon as he came up the hatchway; joining with some considerable difficulty in the lieutenant's constitutional "quarter-deck walk." The reverend gentleman had not got his sea legs yet, and did not find it an easy matter to keep step, or indeed keep his footing sometimes. This was more especially the case when the ship heeled over every now and again before the force of the wind and then righted herself on an even keel without warning, throwing Mr Smythe off his balance and causing him to clutch frantically at _Joe's_ arm for support till he recovered his lost centre of gravity. The lieutenant's courtesy was put to a severe test in making him preserve _his_ gravity; albeit, he had an itching inclination to burst out into his jovial laugh at the reverend gentleman's ridiculous contortions and praiseworthy attempts to sustain a sort of disjointed conversation between the pauses of his grotesque sprawls and restoration to a more dignified attitude. As they were marching up and down the deck in this desultory way, describing the while a series of irregular ellipses, Six Bells was struck forwards, and the marine stationed by the taffrail at once shouted out in a high key, "Life-buoy!" "Dear me!" exclaimed Mr Smythe in a shrill tone of alarm, which his squeaky voice was well calculated to express, bringing up suddenly against one of the quarter boats which was swung inboard from the davits; and knocking his head violently against the bottom planking, through the ship lurching as he stopped. "What has happened--is anyone lost overboard?"