“Ta, ta, cookie!” cried the skipper cheerily. Angry and puzzled the “Bruiser” ran back to the edge of the quay, and stood owlishly regarding the schooner and the grinning faces of its crew as they hoisted the sails and slowly swung around with their bow pointing to the sea. “Well, they ain’t making a long stay, old man,” said a voice at his elbow, as the man for whom he had been waiting came up. “Why, they only came in ten minutes ago. What did they come in for, do you know?” “They belong here,” said the “Bruiser”; “but me and the skipper’s had words, and I’m waiting for ’im.” “That craft don’t belong here,” said the stranger, as he eyed the receding _Frolic_. “Yes, it does,” said the “Bruiser.” “I tell you it don’t,” said the other. “I ought to know.” “Look here, my friend,” said the “Bruiser” grimly, “don’t contradict me. That’s the _Frolic_ of Fairhaven.” “Very likely,” said the man. “I don’t know where she’s from, but she’s not from here.” “Why,” said the “Bruiser,” and his voice shook, “ain’t this Fairhaven?” “Lord love you, no!” said the stranger; “not by a couple o’ hundred miles it ain’t. Wot put that idea into your silly fat head?” The frantic “Bruiser” raised his fist at the description, but at that moment the crew of the _Frolic_, which was just getting clear of the harbour, hung over the stern and gave three hearty cheers. The stranger was of a friendly and excitable disposition, and, his evil star being in the ascendant that morning, he took off his hat and cheered wildly back. Immediately afterwards he obtained unasked the post of whipping-boy to the master of the _Frolic_, and entered upon his new duties at once.