“Ah, I hope not,” said Augusta. “By-the-way, Mr. Bill, will you let me look at the tattoo on your arm?” “Certainly, Miss,” said Bill, with alacrity, holding his great arm within an inch of her nose. It was covered with various tattoos: flags, ships, and what not, in the middle of which, written in small letters along the side of the forearm, was the sailor’s name—Bill Jones. “Who did it, Mr. Bill?” asked Augusta. “Who did it? Why I did it myself. A chap made me a bet that I could not tattoo my own name on my own arm, so I showed him; and a poor sort of hand I should have been at tattooing if I could not.” Augusta said no more till Bill had gone on, then she spoke. “Now, Mr. Meeson, do you see how you can make your will?” she said quietly. “See? No.” he answered, “I don’t.” “Well, I do: you can tattoo it—or, rather get the sailor to tattoo it. It need not be very long.” “Tattoo it! What on, and what with?” he asked, astonished. “You can have it tattooed on the back of the other sailor, Johnnie, if he will allow you; and as for material, you have some revolver cartridges; if the gunpowder is mixed with water, it would do, I should think.” “‘Pon my word,” said Mr. Meeson, “you are a wonderful woman! Whoever would have thought of such a thing except a woman? Go and ask the man Johnnie, there’s a good girl, if he would mind my will being tattooed upon his back.” “Well,” said Augusta; “it’s a queer sort of message; but I’ll try.” Accordingly, taking little Dick by the hand, she went across to where the two sailors were sitting outside their hut, and putting on her sweetest smile, first of all asked Mr. Bill if he would mind doing a little tattooing for her. To this Mr. Bill, finding time hang heavy upon his hands, and wishing to be kept out of the temptation of the rum-cask, graciously assented, saying that he had seen some sharp fish-bones lying about which would be the very thing, though he shook his head at the idea of using gunpowder as the medium. He said it would not do at all well, and then, as though suddenly seized by an inspiration, started off down to the shore. Then Augusta, as gently and nicely as she could, approached the question with Johnnie, who was sitting with his back against the hut, his battered countenance wearing a peculiarly ill-favored expression, probably owing to the fact that he was suffering from severe pain in his head, as a result of the debauch of the previous night.