My chum still wore his revolver belt and holster, and, for once, the dirty lanyard was round his neck. "I made a fool of myself, sir," he blurted out; "I’d never had a chance before, and I went straight for her." His face was drawn with pain and shame at his want of discretion. "You both want a brandy-and-soda," was all Commander Duckworth said when he had heard our tale. He made us drink one—it was iced, and it was grand—and said not a word of reproof for our foolhardiness. If he had stormed and cursed us, I do not know what we should have done. I dreaded terribly that my chum would not be allowed to take his cutter away again on account of his wound—if for no other reason—but I think that the commander realized his distressed state of mind, and I breathed freely when he quietly told us to repair all damages, that fresh men would be sent to replace casualties (my chum winced), and that we were to report as soon as we were ready to return to our stations. I saw Popple Opstein’s face flush with gratitude. He said, tremblingly: "Thank you, sir!" and limped out. Commander Duckworth stopped me. "I don’t know whether I am doing wisely or not in allowing him to go away again. Just have a look at him every daybreak, and, if that wound goes wrong, bring him back. Tell Nicholson to report to me what he thinks of it before he does go, and—and—just let him know how things stand." "Very good, sir. Thank you, sir, very much! He’s rather a strange old chap, fearfully sensitive, and he’d break his heart if you stopped him going." The cutter was hoisted to the davits, and, whilst all the carpenters and ship-wrights in the ship were repairing her, the _Intrepid_ slowly steamed inshore, towing my launch astern. Nicholson found time to look at the wounds in my scalp and forehead. He told me that they had healed splendidly; but when I saw them in a looking-glass—a great red line across my forehead and another on the side of my head across a patch of half-grown hair—I could not help making a grimace. "It won’t show in a month’s time," he said, laughing. "Don’t you worry about your beauty being spoilt; the girls will like you all the better for it." Strangely enough, I did happen to be thinking that perhaps if that little, yellow-haired lady saw me now, her mocking grey eyes might look a little serious—for once. At any rate she could not possibly treat me as an infant. I grew quite red—though that I should have done so was perfectly absurd, because I scarcely knew her, had only spoken to her once or twice, and then she had treated me as if I were a midshipman or a mere child. Nicholson read my thoughts—or thought he did—and chaffed me till I grew more red than ever, and wanted to kick him.