The master of the _Sarah Jane_ allowed this insolence to pass unheeded. It is in moments of deep distress that the mind of man, naturally reverting to solemn things, seeks to improve the occasion by a lecture. The skipper, chastened by suffering and disappointment, stuck his right hand in his pocket, after a lengthened search for it, and gently bidding the blanketed urchin in front of him to sit down, began: “You see what comes of drink and cards,” he said mournfully. “Instead of being at the helm of my ship, racing all the other craft down the river, I’m skulkin’ down below here like—like”— “Like an actress,” suggested Tommy. The skipper eyed him all over. Tommy, unconscious of offence, met his gaze serenely. “If,” continued the skipper, “at any time you felt like taking too much, and you stopped with the beer-mug half-way to your lips, and thought of me sitting in this disgraceful state, what would you do?” “I dunno,” replied Tommy, yawning. “What would you do?” persisted the skipper, with great expression. “Laugh, I s’pose,” said Tommy, after a moment’s thought. The sound of a well-boxed ear rang through the cabin. “You’re an unnatural, ungrateful little toad,” said the skipper fiercely. “You don’t deserve to have a good, kind uncle to look after you.” “Anybody can have him for me,” sobbed the indignant Tommy, as he tenderly felt his ear. “You look a precious sight more like an aunt than an uncle.” After firing this shot he vanished in a cloud of blanket, and the skipper, reluctantly abandoning a hastily-formed resolve of first flaying him alive and then flinging him overboard, sat down again and lit his pipe. Once out of the river he came on deck again, and, ignoring by a great effort the smiles of the crew and the jibes of the mate, took command. The only alteration he made in his dress was to substitute his sou’-wester for the bonnet, and in this guise he did his work, while the aggrieved Tommy hopped it in blankets. The three days at sea passed like a horrid dream. So covetous was his gaze, that the crew instinctively clutched their nether garments and looked to the buttoning of their coats as they passed him. He saw coats in the mainsail, and fashioned phantom trousers out of the flying jib, and towards the end began to babble of blue serges and mixed tweeds. Oblivious of fame, he had resolved to enter the harbour of Battlesea by night; but it was not to be. Near home the wind dropped, and the sun was well up before Battlesea came into view, a grey bank on the starboard bow. Until within a mile of the harbour, the skipper held on, and then his grasp on the wheel relaxed somewhat, and he looked round anxiously for the mate. “Where’s Bob?” he shouted. “He’s very ill, sir,” said Ted, shaking his head. “Ill?” gasped the startled skipper. “Here, take the wheel a minute.” He handed it over, and grasping his skirts went hastily below. The mate was half lying, half sitting, in his bunk, groaning dismally.