“Is that woman mad?” cried I. “What does she take me to be? And does she suppose that you, whom she must have known all her life---- I’ll tell you what, Tom Martin, I’m not going to lose my ship for the want of a boat. If I can’t find a waterman soon I shall seize the first small punt I can launch with mine own hands. Hark!” I heard footsteps; a sound of the tread of feet came from Beach Street. I walked up the alley to the entrance of it, not for a moment doubting that the fellows coming along were Deal boatmen, fresh from doing business out at sea. Old Tom Martin called after me; I did not catch what he said; in fact I had no chance to hear; for when I reached the entrance of the alley, a body of ten or twelve men came right upon me, and in a breath I was collared, to a deep roaring cry of “Here’s a good sailor!” CHAPTER IV. I ESCAPE FROM THE PRESS. I struggled and was savagely gripped by the arm. I stood grasped by two huge brawny men, one of whom called out, “No caper-cutting, my lad. No need to show your paces here.” “I am first mate of the _Royal Brunswicker_,” I exclaimed. “You looks like a first mate--the chap that cooks the mate. You shall have mates enough, old ship--shipmates and messmates.” “Let me go. You cannot take me; you know it. I am first mate of the _Royal Brunswicker_--the ship astern of the frigate----” “Heave ahead, lads,” exclaimed a voice that was not wanting in refinement, though it sounded as if the person who owned it was rather tipsy. At the moment of seizing me the company of fellows had halted within the sheen of the lamp at the corner of the street. They were a wonderfully fine body of men, magnificent examples of the British sailor of a period when triumphant successes and a long victorious activity had worked the British naval seaman up to the highest pitch of perfection that he ever had attained, a pitch that it must be impossible for him under the utterly changed conditions of the sea life to ever again attain. They were armed with cutlasses, and some of them carried truncheons and wore round hats and round jackets and heavy belts. Two of the mob were pressed men. “Heave ahead, lads,” cried the refined dram-thickened voice. I looked in the direction of the voice, and observed a young fellow clad in a pea-coat, with some sort of head-gear on his head that might have been designed to disguise him. “Sir,” cried I, “are you the officer in command here?” “Never you mind! Heave ahead, lads; steer a straight course for the boat.” In a moment the whole body of us were in motion. A seaman on either hand grasped me by the arm, and immediately behind were the other two pressed men. “Tom Martin,” I roared out, hoping that the old fellow might yet be within hearing; “you see what has happened. For God’s sake report to Captain Round.” “Who’s that bawling?” angrily and huskily shouted the young officer in the pea-coat.