"Then I have had fever again, and have never been at home; have never seen Ethel! Have never been thrown into Acton Chine! I have had dreams, Tom--oh, such dreams!" "I rather think you have, Morley." "How mad I must have been, and such queer things I must have said. Did I speak about the Bassets and the Isle of France? I would have sworn that I had seen Ethel, had spoken to her, and--and kissed her many times. Dear Ethel! And so we are still on board your brig in the Bonny River?" "Now, what are you talking about? You are most awfully at sea, in more ways than one!" exclaimed Bartelot, thrusting his hands deep into his trousers pockets, and regarding Morley with great surprise. "My poor chum, Ashton, you are not aboard my old brig, the _Rattler_, of Liverpool, at Foche Point, with the yellow flag--the sign of fever--flying at the foremasthead, but aboard of my new ship, the _Princess_, of London, of 300 tons register (we won't say what burden) and Al at Lloyd's, bound for Rio de Janeiro, with a mixed cargo, and now about eighty miles off the Land's End and Cape Cornwall." "Tom, Tom, how you bewilder me," groaned Morley. "We are just clearing St. George's Channel with a glorious breeze--quite aft--though it will soon be upon the starboard quarter, I fear. So now, my boy, tell me how the deuce you came to be perched up aloft among the gulls and gannets on yonder rocks? A most fearful place it is, and a world of trouble it cost my first mate, Bill Morrison, to get you towed up in safety." The silence almost of stupefaction succeeded this information, and some time elapsed before Morley could understand or realise the truth of it. Meanwhile, let us describe Captain Thomas Bartelot, of the ship _Princess_, of London.