"Thanks, thanks, old fellow; but a homeward-bound ship will avail me little." "The deuce!--would you wish to swim or fly?" "Unless I could be landed near Acton-Rennel, and within a week, it matters not where I am; for Ethel Basset, if she lives--survives my supposed loss--don't laugh in that way, Tom, please--must be, like myself----" "How--where?" "Upon the sea." "Drink this," said Bartelot, handing him a tumbler of wine-and-water; "and now tell me all about this matter, for I own to being rather curious about it." Morley related his story briefly and rapidly. "My berth was secured and paid for on board the _Hermione_, of London." "I know the craft well, and jolly Jack Phillips, her captain, too," said Bartelot; "a fine old fellow he is, and your friends are in capital hands." "I was to have sailed with them for the Isle of France," said Morley, in a voice like a groan; "sailed once more in search of fortune--the blind jade! Ah, Tom, the Romans were right when they depicted her as a woman, for she has much to do in the happiness or misery of man." "Is that the wine or water talking now?" asked Tom, supplying himself with another measure, nautically named "a caulker," from the before-mentioned square case-bottle. "Don't chaff me, Tom, for mine is an evil destiny." "Oh, bother! don't talk of destiny, like a fellow in tights, with a broad-brimmed tile, addressing the lustre, or the footlights, at the Surrey. Every man who has a steady heart--a heart, mind you, that don't yaw even when the wind is foul--and keeps a strong hand on the tiller of perseverance, is the maker of his own destiny. I learned that long ago, before I knew the mizzen-top from a marlin-spike. This spirit will make a man go right before the wind, through even Hamlet's 'sea of troubles,' and never heed the waves or breakers thereof." "Why, Tom," said Morley, with a sad smile, "you are a regular salt-water preacher." "A philosopher if you will; but no preacher--oh, d----n it, I haven't come to that. I suppose that piratical beggar--what's his name?" "Hawkshaw--Cramply Hawkshaw," replied Morley, through his clenched teeth. "I suppose he will consider you quite a gone 'coon, as the Yankees say; but you must haul up for the Mauritius (if we can find a ship for thence at Rio, which is not very likely) and have the fellow exposed, tried, and punished as he deserves." "Punished! how know I that ere I can reach the Mauritius, penniless as I am----" "Penniless! You young swab, don't you know that you can command my purse--no great matter certainly--to the last farthing?" "Thanks, my dear Bartelot." "Well, as you were about to say, before you may reach the Mauritius----" "He may be--he may be----" "What?" "The husband of Ethel Basset." "Whe-e-e-uh!" whistled Tom Bartelot. "How can I foresee what one so subtle, so daring, so reckless as Hawkshaw may achieve!"