that my stout acquaintance is a sort of nautical magistrate, authorised to try such cases by a sort of informal court-martial on board, and empowered to order the culprit, if found guilty, to be put in irons, or to be mast-headed, or otherwise dealt with according to maritime law. Standing in the gangway I become an interested spectator of the trial. The evidently guilty party, pale as a suet dumpling, and trembling like a jelly (remarkable culinary combination), is awaiting his sentence. "Why didn't you go on board the tender with every one else?" asks my Judicial and Nautical Assessor (I fancy this is the terra in the Admiralty Court, where, if on shore, he would probably sit attired in full naval uniform, with a judge's wig on, and a cocked hat a-top of that). The man mutters something about "didn't hear." "Not hear!" ejaculates the Assessor, taking a short pull at his cigar and smiling incredulously, "not hear! when everyone was shouting and rushing all over the ship!" Personally I can bear witness to these facts; but, not being called as evidence for the Crown and Anchor, I remain silent. Why even down in the engine-rooms the stokers must have heard the shouts for "TUBBS!" It occurs to me suddenly that this wretched man must have stolen TUBBS' umbrella. But I am at once enlightened as to the real state of the case. "Look here, my man," says the Judicial and Nautical Assessor, as he critically eyes the ash of his cigar before flicking it off while speaking to the prisoner, "you said you came on board to see your friends off; you gave their name as TOMPKINS. Well, there isn't such a name on the books." This statement seems to come as a "facer" to the cadaverous man, who, becoming more cadaverous than ever, eyes the deck-rails askance, as if contemplating a sudden rush and a jump into the water. "Now, my man," continues the Assessor, with pleasant severity, "you say you've got friends at Plymouth,"--the man is understood to assent to this proposition in a despairing sort of way--"and you say they'll pay for you there." The slightest indication of a cunning smile momentarily illumines the Job Trotter-like countenance of the prisoner. "Well, we don't do business on those terms. You give the steward three guineas, and we'll take you to Plymouth. But if you can't pay--off you go. Here, steward, you're wanted." And that officer coming up, the miserable individual with the valuable umbrella (about which no questions have been asked) is given into his charge by my stout acquaintance, who, as we enter the smoking-room, says to me in an undertone, "He's a regular 'do.' We've hailed a boat, and he'll be put off in two two's. He wanted to get his passage free. He's a 'stowaway,' that's what _he_ is."