Tom saw everything in a mist as he went aboard. Worn out with the exertions and excitements of the past few days, he was only vaguely conscious of being fussed over, and treated, as he said afterwards, more or less as a baby. He was put to bed, slept heavily for several hours, and awoke with a most exigent hunger. The yacht was in motion. He rose, bathed, put on some clean things, and, feeling himself again, thankfully obeyed Mr. Greatorex’s hearty call to dinner. Around the well-spread table he found the rest of the party already seated. At the head was Mr. Greatorex, with Sir Mark Ingleton at his right; at the foot, Captain Bodgers with Herr Schwab. The German had tucked his napkin between his shirt and his waistcoat, and was gazing with ecstatic anticipation through his glasses at the covered entrée dishes just brought in by Timothy. Tom was taken aback, and not a little moved, when Sir Mark Ingleton rose from his seat, and, grasping his hand, said— “Thank you, Mr. Dorrell. I have heard the whole story from Mr. Greatorex and your Moorish follower. It is not for me to speak of the public service you have rendered; personally, I owe you more than I can say, and I shall never forget it.” “So!” chimed in Schwab, rising stiffly from his chair. His left hand gripped his fork; his right enveloped Tom’s. “I zank you, for myself personaliter, and for ze Kaiser, for Schlagintwert, and for Business. Fill my glass, if you please,” he added to Timothy, whose smile instantly changed to a frown—“I vish to cry ‘Hoch!’ No, no, not too full, for ze ship moves, and ze champagne vould slop over.” Schwab’s intervention came in the nick of time to relieve Tom’s embarrassment. “Come, Tom, my _dear_ fellow,” cried Mr. Greatorex, “_sit_ down. We were only waiting for you.” “Where’s Oliphant?” asked Tom. “Hm! _M’Cracken_ is at the furnace,” replied Mr. Greatorex. “I say! That’s rough luck!” said Tom. “It is by his own wish. I did violence to my sense of what is _right_ and _proper_, and invited him to a place at our board. He showed, I must say, a commendable sense of his _duty_ in the matter. ‘I’m M’Cracken and your stoker, sir,’ he said, ’till we get back to England.’” “May I suggest,” said Sir Mark Ingleton, “that a sense of the unfitness of his attire also weighed with him?” “We can soon alter that,” said Tom. “He’s about my build; I’ll go and rig him out in one of my suits.” “Ve shall not vait to begin?” said Schwab anxiously, holding knife and fork upright on the table. “Mr. Oliphant will doubtless pardon us,” replied Sir Mark blandly. In a quarter of an hour Tom returned with Oliphant in white ducks and blue serge. “Still is zere somezink left,” said Schwab. “I feel moch better, zough I vish ze table vould not move. Do not fill your glass quite full, sir; it vould slop over, and zat vould be pity.” “Where’s Abdul?” asked Tom, as he sat down. “With the men, forward,” said Mr. Greatorex. “That’s all right. I’m jolly glad he got off safely.”