The groom hesitated a minute, and then made way for Chrissie as the boatswain assisted her to get up beside him; then Tucker, with a grin of satisfaction at getting a seat once more, clambered up behind, and they started. “Have a rug, mate,” said the groom, handing the reins to Chrissie and passing it over; “put it round your knees and tuck the ends under you.” “Ay, ay, mate,” said the boatswain as he obeyed the instructions. “Are you sure you are quite comfortable?” said the groom affectionately. “Quite,” said the other. The groom said no more, but in a quiet business-like fashion placed his hands on the seaman’s broad back, and shot him out into the road. Then he snatched up the reins and drove off at a gallop. Without the faintest hope of winning, Mr. Tucker, who realised clearly, appearances notwithstanding, that he had fallen into a trap, rose after a hurried rest and started on his fifth race that morning. The prize was only a second-rate groom with plated buttons, who was waving cheery farewells to him with a dingy top hat; but the boatswain would have sooner had it than a silver tea-service. He ran as he had never ran before in his life, but all to no purpose, the trap stopping calmly a little further on to take up another passenger, in whose favour the groom retired to the back seat; then, with a final wave of the hand to him, they took a road to the left and drove rapidly out of sight. The boatswain’s watch was over. LOW WATER It was a calm, clear evening in late summer as the _Elizabeth Ann_, of Pembray, scorning the expensive aid of a tug, threaded her way down the London river under canvas. The crew were busy forward, and the master and part-owner—a fussy little man, deeply imbued with a sense of his own importance and cleverness—was at the wheel chatting with the mate. While waiting for a portion of his cargo, he had passed the previous week pleasantly enough with some relatives in Exeter, and was now in a masterful fashion receiving a report from the mate. “There’s one other thing,” said the mate. “I dessay you’ve noticed how sober old Dick is to-night.” “I kept him short o’ purpose,” said the skipper, with a satisfied air. “Tain’t that,” said the mate. “You’ll be pleased to hear that ’im an’ Sam has been talked over by the other two, and that all your crew now, ’cept the cook, who’s still Roman Catholic, has j’ined the Salvation Army.” “Salvation Army!” repeated the skipper in dazed tones. “I don’t want none o’ your gammon, Bob.” “It’s quite right,” said the other. “You can take it from me. How it was done I don’t know, but what I do know is, none of ’em has touched licker for five days. They’ve all got red jerseys, an’ I hear as old Dick preaches a hexcellent sermon. He’s red-hot on it, and t’others follow ’im like sheep.” “The drink’s got to his brain,” said the skipper sagely, after due reflection. “Well, I don’t mind, so long as they behave theirselves.”