By this time the commotion in the river was frightful, and the captain’s steering, as he went on his round again, something marvellous to behold. A strange lack of sympathy on the part of brother captains added to his troubles. Every craft he passed had something to say to him, busy as they were, and the remarks were as monotonous as they were insulting. At last, just as he was resolving to run his boat straight down the river until he came to a halt for want of steam, the mate caught the rope he flung, and the _Bulldog_ went down the river with her boat made fast to her stern. “Come aboard, you—you lunatic!” he shouted. “Not afore I knows ’ow I stand,” said the engineer, who was now beautifully sober, and in full possession of a somewhat acute intellect. “What do you mean?” demanded the skipper. “I don’t come aboard,” shouted the engineer, “until you and the mate and the bye all swear as you won’t say nothing about this little game.” “I’ll report you the moment I get ashore,” roared the skipper. “I’ll give you in charge for desertion. I’ll”— With a supreme gesture the engineer prepared to dive, but the watchful mate fell on his neck and tripped him over a seat. “Come aboard!” cried the skipper, aghast at such determination. “Come aboard, and I’ll give you a licking when we get ashore instead.” “Honour bright?” inquired the engineer. “Honour bright,” chorused the three. The engineer, with all the honours of war, came on board, and, after remarking that he felt chilly bathing on an empty stomach, went down below and began to stoke. In the course of the voyage he said that it was worth while making such a fool of himself if only to see the skipper’s beautiful steering, warmly asseverating that there was not another man on the river that could have done it. Before this insidious flattery the skipper’s wrath melted like snow before the sun, and by the time they reached port he would as soon have thought of hitting his own father as his smooth-tongued engineer. OUTSAILED It was a momentous occasion. The two skippers sat in the private bar of the “Old Ship,” in High Street, Wapping, solemnly sipping cold gin and smoking cigars, whose sole merit consisted in the fact that they had been smuggled. It is well known all along the waterside that this greatly improves their flavour. “Draw all right?” queried Captain Berrow—a short, fat man of few ideas, who was the exulting owner of a bundle of them. “Beautiful,” replied Captain Tucker, who had just made an excursion into the interior of his with the small blade of his penknife. “Why don’t you keep smokes like these, landlord?” “He can’t,” chuckled Captain Berrow fatuously. “They’re not to be ’ad—money couldn’t buy ’em.” The landlord grunted. “Why don’t you settle about that race o’ yours an’ ha’ done with it,” he cried, as he wiped down his counter. “Seems to me, Cap’n Tucker’s hanging fire.” “I’m ready when he is,” said Tucker, somewhat shortly.