‘I should think _you_ would be sure to do them a lot of good. There’s no doubt at all about that,’ replied Jack Blythe gruffly, as he turned on his heel. There could not have been a greater contrast than between these two men. To see them side by side was to doubt the possibility of their belonging to the same order of creation. Jack Blythe, strong, healthy, and muscular, with arms and hands that had been developed by manual labour, and a fresh skin, which had been bronzed by a tropical sun, and washed and beaten by the salt sprays of the Atlantic--with manly and practical ideas, and a wholesome horror of effeminacy and all that pertains to a fop; and Harold Greenwood, with a milk-and-water complexion and flabby muscles,--soft limbs, that stood on a par with those of a woman, and a head crammed with superficial ideas, that showed the narrowness of his nature and the absence of even an ordinary amount of brain. ‘Awfully jolly weather this, isn’t it?’ continued Harold Greenwood, who was too dense to take a rebuff unless it was administered in the shape of a kick. ‘I say, what time do they call a fella here in the morning? I should like to be up to see the ship start. Do you think the steward will remember to wake me?’ ‘I don’t know,’ returned Vernon brusquely. ‘You had better ask him yourself. And I wish the d----l you wouldn’t whisk your stick about in that absurd manner. You will put out my eye in another minute.’ This last request, which was delivered in a very angry tone of voice, startled ‘Miss Nancy’ altogether, and with a muttered apology, and a half-frightened look at the second officer, Mr Greenwood hurried down the accommodation ladder, thinking what very rude men sailors seemed to be, whilst Jack continued to keep his watch, and to smile to himself whenever the sound of Alice’s ringing laughter was wafted upwards through the open skylights of the saloon.