heaving a pall with the capstan, or making up a jib ready to be sent out on to the boom. Jack Blythe was not so active as his superior. He was obliged to stow the last cases and barrels very carefully in the lower decks, so as to leave a passage to the locker, in order that forty tons of gunpowder might be taken aboard, and placed there when the vessel reached the hulks. The third mate was a nice-looking youngster, who had just passed his second officer’s examination. His name was Richard Sparkes. He was a tall lad, with curly brown hair, an apology for a moustache, and bright blue eyes. His duties were confined to the passengers’ stores, the safety of the live stock, and the care of the fresh water. As the clock struck twelve work was knocked off, and the youngest officer being left in charge of the ship, the two elders stepped on to the quay, and went to get their mid-day meal. Vernon Blythe walked to a small hotel, in the bar window of which the landlord had placed a placard to the effect, that he had ‘Good accommodation for officers and midshipmen.’ There he sat down to a _table d’hôte_, and afterwards amused himself with _Lloyd’s Shipping News_, whilst inhaling the fragrant bouquet of a well-coloured pipe, and giving an occasional thought to Alice Leyton’s near arrival. But where Mr Coffin disappeared to, it would be difficult to say. He was an entirely different man from his second. His habits, manners, and associates were all rough and unpolished. He had been born in a fishing village, and nurtured among whalers, deep-sea fishers, and lime-juicers. He had never entered cultivated society, consequently he was shy and reserved, and when on shore sought out such habitats as sailors of his stamp usually frequent. He had looked with astonishment, not unmixed with contempt, at Jack Blythe’s handsome and refined features, close cropped hair, well kept hands, and neat attire. He had already set him down as a fair-weather sailor, and a dandy, and doubted his ability in a time of trouble. Before the voyage was over Abel Coffin had acknowledged to himself and Vernon Blythe that he was wrong. In the afternoon the busy throng that waited on the quay, and the dock loafers that hung about the shipping, gradually cleared away, and at five o’clock the hatches were battened down, and Mr Coffin reported the _Pandora_ ready for sea. By the time the dinner-bell was sounded, most of the passengers had arrived to answer to its summons. Jack Blythe had received the Leytons at the head of the gangway. Mrs Leyton, a fragile-looking woman, whose delicate health had been the cause of her residing in England for some years past, came first, with her youngest born, a heavy child of four years old, in her arms. ‘Give baby to me, Mrs Leyton,’ cried Jack, eagerly, as she came toiling along the gangway. ‘Why didn’t you let one of the sailors carry her? She is much too heavy for you.’ ‘She is so naughty,’ sighed the poor mother; ‘she will go to no one but myself.’