“Naughty boy!” said she, giving him a few slight cuffs. “Has he hurt you? I must get a bandage for you.” “A little,” said Codd, looking at his hand, which was bleeding profusely. “There’s a little linen in the locker down below, if you wouldn’t mind tearing it up for me.” Mrs. Bunker, giving the dog a final slap, went below, and the two men looked at each other and then at the dog, which was standing at the stern, barking insultingly at a passing steamer. “It’s about time she came over,” said the mate, throwing a glance at the sail, then at the skipper, then at the dog. “So it is,” said the skipper, through his set teeth. As he spoke he pushed the long tiller hastily from port to starboard, and the dog finished his bark in the water; the huge sail reeled for a moment, then swung violently over to the other side, and the barge was on a fresh tack, with the dog twenty yards astern. He was wise in his generation, and after one look at the barge, made for the distant shore. “Murderers!” screamed a voice; “murderers! you’ve killed my dog.” “It was an accident; I didn’t see him,” stammered the skipper. “Don’t tell me,” stormed the lady; “I saw it all through the skylight.” “We had to shift the helm to get out of the way of a schooner,” said Codd. “Where’s the schooner?” demanded Mrs. Bunker; “where is it?” The captain looked at the mate. “Where’s the schooner?” said he. “I b’leeve,” said the mate, losing his head entirely at this question, “I b’leeve we must have run her down. I don’t see her nowhere about.” Mrs. Bunker stamped her foot, and, with a terrible glance at the men, descended to the cabin. From this coign of vantage she obstinately refused to budge, and sat in angry seclusion until the vessel reached Ipswich late in the evening. Then she appeared on deck, dressed for walking, and, utterly ignoring the woebegone Codd, stepped ashore, and, obtaining a cab for her boxes, drove silently away. An hour afterwards the mate went to his home, leaving the captain sitting on the lonely deck striving to realise the bitter fact that, so far as the end he had in view was concerned, he had seen the last of Mrs. Bunker and the small but happy home in which he had hoped to install her. A HARBOUR OF REFUGE A waterman’s boat was lying in the river just below Greenwich, the waterman resting on his oars, while his fare, a small, perturbed-looking man in seaman’s attire, gazed expectantly up the river. “There she is!” he cried suddenly, as a small schooner came into view from behind a big steamer. “Take me alongside.” “Nice little thing she is too,” said the waterman, watching the other out of the corner of his eye as he bent to his oars. “Rides the water like a duck. Her cap’n knows a thing or two, I’ll bet.” “He knows watermen’s fares,” replied the passenger coldly. “Look out there!” cried a voice from the schooner, and the mate threw a line which the passenger skilfully caught.