sufficient to prevent the bailiffs from slipping and floundering in the deep sea-water pools left by the receding tide. Somehow the rope would jerk, or a fisherman would slip, and down all would come together. Meanwhile hoarse shouts echoed from the gallery of spectators above. "Pull aft there, Bill." "Let her head stand steady to the cliff." "Port your helm, you lubber; don't you see where you're standing for?" "Ease her, ease her, Tim! Now let her for'ard." And so, with shouts, and orders, and a fair sprinkling of profane adjurations, the rescuers and the rescued were hauled up the roughest side of the cliff, until the black visages of the bailiffs were visible. Then there was a pause, and many a sympathetic word for the "poor min." "Where did they come from, at all?" "No one knows. They're poor shipwrecked furriners." "Have they any talk?" "Very little, except to curse." "Poor min! and I suppose they're all drowned wet." Whilst the rescuing party halted, and wiped the perspiration from their brows, one said, half apologetically:-- "I am axed by these gintlemin to tell ye--ahem! that there's a rule in this village that no credit is given, from the price of an ounce of tay to a pound of tobakky. An' if ye'd be so plasin' as to remimber that poun' note ye promised, an' if it is convanient and contagious to ye, perhaps--" One of the bailiffs fumbled at his pockets in his critical condition, and making a round ball of the note, he flung it up the cliff side with a gesture of disgust. Jem Deady took up the missive, opened it calmly, studied the numbers, and put it in his pocket. "Now, byes, a long pull, a sthrong pull, and a pull thegither!"