To the joy of the men he partly broke down in the forecastle that night; and, in tropical language, severally blamed his parents, the School Board, and the Army for not having taught him to swim. The last thing that Bill heard, ere sleep closed his lids, was a pious resolution on the part of Mr. Bliss to the effect that all his children should be taught the art of natation as soon as they were born. Bill woke up just before six; and, hearing a complaining voice, thought at first that his military friend was still speaking. The voice got more and more querulous with occasional excursions into the profane, and the seaman, rubbing his eyes, turned his head, and saw old Thomas groping about the forecastle. “Wot’s the matter with you, old ’un?” he demanded. “I can’t find my trousis,” grumbled the old man. “Did you ’ave ’em on larst night?” inquired Bill, who was still half asleep. “Course I did, you fool,” said the other snappishly. “Be civil,” said Bill, calmly, “be civil. Are you sure you haven’t got ’em on now?” The old man greeted this helpful suggestion with such a volley of abuse that Bill lost his temper. “P’r’aps somebody’s got ’em on their bed, thinking they was a patchwork quilt,” he said, coldly; “it’s a mistake anybody might make. Have you got the jacket?” “I ain’t got nothing,” replied the bewildered old man, “’cept wot I stand up in.” “That ain’t much,” said Bill frankly. “Where’s that blooming sojer?” he demanded suddenly. “I don’t know where ’e is, and I don’t care,” replied the old man. “On deck, I s’pose.” “P’r’aps ’e’s got ’em on,” said the unforgiving Bill; “’e didn’t seem a very pertickler sort of chap.” The old man started, and hurriedly ascended to the deck. He was absent two or three minutes, and, when he returned, consternation was writ large upon his face. “He’s gone,” he spluttered; “there ain’t a sign of ’im about, and the life-belt wot hangs on the galley ’as gone too. Wot am I to do?” “Well, they was very old cloes,” said Bill, soothingly, “an’ you ain’t a bad figger, not for your time o’ life, Thomas.” “There’s many a wooden-legged man ’ud be glad to change with you,” affirmed Ted, who had been roused by the noise. “You’ll soon get over the feeling o’ shyness, Thomas.” The forecastle laughed encouragingly, and Thomas, who had begun to realise the position, joined in. He laughed till the tears ran down his cheeks, and his excitement began to alarm his friends. “Don’t be a fool, Thomas,” said Bob, anxiously. “I can’t help it,” said the old man, struggling hysterically; “it’s the best joke I’ve heard.” “He’s gone dotty,” said Ted, solemnly. “I never ’eard of a man larfing like that a ’cos he’d lorst ’is cloes.” “I’m not larfing at that,” said Thomas, regaining his composure by a great effort. “I’m larfing at a joke wot you don’t know of yet.”