Gow had already seen vividly that the matter of something to eat will upset a dynasty and junk a throne more quickly than any merely political irritation, so, for the appeasement of his subjects and the preservation of his dignities--to say nothing of his life--he resolved to risk no more disappointing ships but to strike for a port and the run of land stores. The place chosen for their custom was the little Portuguese settlement of Porta Santa, in the Madeiras. With something of the feeling that honester men have on the homeward heave, all hands pulled together heartily, nor allowed any wallowing merchantmen to divert them until the white walls and red roofs of their desired haven rose comfortingly out of the sea. The _Revenge_ foamed smartly into the harbor and rattled her anchor into the mud. A solemn council in the great cabin--now in all that queer topsy-turveydom which betrays apparent but false authority, and where there was no longer any cramping posture for evening prayers--decided that here was a splendid opportunity to get rid of some of their fish. Appropriately, they would bestow a quantity of it on the governor of Porta Santa, as the embodiment of the State. Half a dozen ruffians washed their faces, clubbed their briny locks, rubbed up their shoe buckles, pulled together, with long stitches, the gaping holes in their stockings and set out in a boat jammed with dried salmon and pickled herring. From his airy prison, the Scotch captain gazed pensively upon them. “Mon,” he groaned to a captive Dane, “I cuid bear to ken the rabbers sell ma fush--but to gie it awa’; gie it awa’ to these jabberin’ jumping-jacks for never a bawbee! Mon, mon, these mock sailors air on the road to ruin. And Gow a Scottishman--” John Gow’s departure from the normal was simply inexplicable. The burly Dane grunted “Yah”, practically the extent of his linguistic resources in Danish or any other tongue. He never did know what all these doings meant, anyway. His Excellency was deeply touched when the load of preserved marine fauna was dumped on the gubernatorial verandah. “It’s not so much the gift,” he reflected, turning over a stark salmon with the toe of his shoe, “as the spirit of the giver.” He looked approvingly on the six honest visages before him and marveled at the depths of their unselfishness. “Where are you bound?” he asked, in Portuguese. “Tell him Bristol, Bill,” prompted one of the emissaries to the slow-footed chum who could parley the lingo sufficiently to interpret the question to his fellows. So Bristol it was. With racial courtesy, the governor proposed to return to the ship with them, to formally thank their captain. A group of local dignitaries was quickly collected and all went down to the wharf. “The governor’s coming aboard,” shouted Gow, as the company appeared at the water side. “Now, men, keep ’em on the quarter-deck and away from the prisoners, and you yourselves try to look less like jailbirds and more like sailormen!”