“Serve you damned well right for letting him go,” cried the skipper, angrily. “Hurry up, George, and get alongside,” he called to the mate, “we’ll catch him yet. Clear out, you—you—ballet girls.” The indignant seamen withdrew slowly, and, reaching the foot of the companion, stood there in mutinous indecision. Then, as the cook placed his foot on the step, the skipper was heard calling to the mate again. “George?” he said, in an odd voice. “Well?” was the reply. “I hope you’re not forgetting yourself and playing larks,” said the skipper, with severity. “Larks?” repeated the mate, as the alarmed crew fled silently on deck and stood listening open-mouthed at the companion. “Of course I ain’t. You don’t mean to tell me—” “All my clothes have gone, every stitch I’ve got,” replied the skipper, desperately, as the mate sprang out. “I shall have to borrow some of yours. If I catch that infernal—” “You’re quite welcome,” said the mate, bitterly, “only somebody has borrowed ’em already. That’s what comes of sleeping too heavy.” * * * * * The _Merman_ sailed bashfully into harbour half an hour later, the uniforms of its crew evoking severe comment from the people on the quay. At the same time, Mr. Harry Bliss, walking along the road some ten miles distant, was trying to decide upon his future career, his present calling of “shipwrecked sailor” being somewhat too hazardous even for his bold spirit. THE BULLY OF THE “CAVENDISH” Talking of prize-fighters, sir,” said the night-watchman, who had nearly danced himself over the edge of the wharf in illustrating one of Mr. Corbett’s most trusted blows, and was now sitting down taking in sufficient air for three, “they ain’t wot they used to be when I was a boy. They advertise in the papers for months and months about their fights, and when it does come off, they do it with gloves, and they’re all right agin a day or two arter. “I saw a picter the other day o’ one punching a bag wot couldn’t punch back, for practice. Why, I remember as a young man Sinker Pitt, as used to ’ave the King’s Arms ’ere in ’is old age; when ’e wanted practice ’is plan was to dress up in a soft ’at and black coat like a chapel minister or something, and go in a pub and contradict people; sailor-men for choice. He’d ha’ no more thought o’ hitting a pore ’armless bag than I should ha’ thought of hitting ’im. “The strangest prize-fighter I ever come acrost was one wot shipped with me on the _Cavendish_. He was the most eggstrordinary fighter I’ve ever seen or ’eard of, and ’e got to be such a nuisance afore ’e’d done with us that we could ’ardly call our souls our own. He shipped as an ordinary seaman—a unfair thing to do, as ’e was anything but ordinary, and ’ad no right to be there at all.