’What is it, old cock? me William Wilson—all light—belong ploper. What’s your game?’ His face beamed, and he pulled a dirty crumpled letter from under his vest and handed it to me. It was addressed to me in Gerald’s handwriting, and I tore it open, his face beaming again as he pointed a thin brown finger first to the address, and then circled it round my face, saying, ’William Wilson.’ It was the only English he seemed to know. I read: ’DEAR OLD BILLUMS—Sorry to have cleared out so hurriedly the other day—just managed to give them the slip in time—heard news of your adventure and the Navy business—wish you chaps would collar the lot of them, for good. Keep a look-out for that little chap who was shadowing me; he’ll try and get even with one of us. Tell the mater I’m having a ripping time—better than planting—will pay better than planting if our side wins. Tell her those socks she made me are A1. Look out for yourself—you’re too much like me for this corner of the world. Don’t send an answer.—GERALD.’ The nigger was still beaming and bowing, and he pointed to my hair. I’m jiggered if he hadn’t spotted me by it. That was a funny go, if you like, and I was jolly glad to know that Gerald was all right. It didn’t worry me a ha’penny candle about that detective chap—I’d be only too jolly glad to see his ugly face and smash it. Ginger and I thought that the little messenger must have come in one of the many trading-schooners which slipped across from the mainland at night when the land breeze sprung up. We gave him all the small change we had in our pockets, and he smiled, and bowed, and disappeared among the merry crowd round us. He couldn’t speak a word of English except my name, and my Chinese pidgin-English wasn’t a success. This was the only excitement and the only news I got from Gerald for several weeks. In the meantime the _Hector_ and the _Hercules_ carried out the gunnery practices which had been interrupted at Gibraltar, returning to anchor off Princes’ Town every Thursday night till Monday morning, so we managed to get in a good many football matches. Ginger and I borrowed grounds and had some more gun-room matches as well, but they didn’t smooth things over, rather the reverse, for when we beat the _Hercules_ at rugby by a try, which, they swore, wasn’t one, matters went from bad to worse. There actually was some doubt about it, for Perkins had been referee (we couldn’t get any one else) and couldn’t keep up with the ball on account of his game leg. We had to separate the two teams in the pavilion, and after that my mids. seldom came back to the ship from a tennis party, picnic, or dance, or anything in fact, without having some furious tale to spin. Old Ginger and I pretty nearly washed our hands of them and let them go their own way.