“I’m not going home by train,” said she, opening the bundle, which contained a spirit kettle and provisions. “I’m going back with you; but I am not going to be beholden to you for anything—I’m going to board myself.” After this declaration she made herself tea and sat down. The meal proceeded in silence, though occasionally she astonished her companions by little mysterious laughs, which caused them slight uneasiness. As she made no hostile demonstration, however, they became reassured, and congratulated themselves upon the success of their manœuvre. “How long shall we be getting back to London, do you think?” inquired Mrs. Blossom at last. “We shall probably sail Tuesday night, and it may be anything from six days upwards,” answered the skipper. “If this wind holds it’ll probably be upwards.” To his great concern Mrs. Blossom put her handkerchief over her face, and, shaking with suppressed laughter, rose from the table and left the cabin. The couple left eyed each other wonderingly. “Did I say anything pertickler funny, George?” inquired the skipper, after some deliberation. “Didn’t strike me so,” said the mate carelessly; “I expect she’s thought o’ something else to say about your family. She wouldn’t be so good-tempered as all that for nothing. I feel cur’ous to know what it is.” “If you paid more attention to your own business,” said the skipper, his choler rising, “you’d get on better. A mate who was a good seaman wouldn’t ha’ let a cook go on like this—it’s not discipline.” He went off in dudgeon, and a coolness sprang up between them, which lasted until the bustle of starting in the small hours of Wednesday morning. Once under way the day passed uneventfully, the schooner crawling sluggishly down the coast of Wales, and, when the skipper turned in that night, it was with the pleasant conviction that Mrs. Blossom had shot her last bolt, and, like a sensible woman, was going to accept her defeat. From this pleasing idea he was aroused suddenly by the watch stamping heavily on the deck overhead. “What’s up?” cried the skipper, darting up the companion-ladder, jostled by the mate. “I dunno,” said Bill, who was at the wheel, shakily. “Mrs. Blossom come up on deck a little while ago, and since then there’s been three or four heavy splashes.” “She can’t have gone overboard,” said the skipper, in tones to which he manfully strove to impart a semblance of anxiety. “No, here she is. Anything wrong, Mrs. Blossom?” “Not so far as I’m concerned,” replied the lady, passing him and going below. “You’ve been dreaming, Bill,” said the skipper sharply. “I ain’t,” said Bill stoutly. “I tell you I heard splashes. It’s my belief she coaxed the cook up on deck, and then shoved him overboard. A woman could do anything with a man like that cook.” “I’ll soon see,” said the mate, and walking forward he put his head down the fore-scuttle and yelled for the cook.