“Don’t agree with you,” remarks the other. “But, anyway, I’m open to bet it isn’t ninety.” “All right,” says the Chief, for such we will call the person who first entered the wardroom. “Bet you a sherry and bitters it is.” The surgeon jumps up and looks at the thermometer, then leans over the table, rings the electric bell, and sings out, “Ah Hing, two sherries and bitters!” The bitters are brought in and disposed of, and then another officer comes in. “Nice and cool to-night, Pill,” he remarks. “Don’t agree with you,” says the surgeon. “But I think it’s much cooler,” remarks the navigator, for that is the rating of the new-comer. “Well, I’ll bet you it’s over ninety,” says the surgeon. “What’ll you bet?” says the navigator. “Oh, a cocktail, to-morrow forenoon. Then look for yourself,” says the surgeon. The navigator strolls over to the thermometer and says, “Eighty-eight.” “Be blowed for a yarn!” says the surgeon. “Let’s look.” But on consulting the mercury column he finds it stands at eighty-eight, so muttering a curse that everybody and everything is against him to-day he sits down and shouts to Ah Hing to bring some chow-chop-chop. “Hurry up, Ah Hing!” says “No. 1” as he comes in. “Hullo, my pippins! What cher! Well, Pill, fisherman’s luck, eh? Shot anything?” “Yes,” says Pill; “darned sight too much!” “Well, tell us all about it. You’ve been grubbin’ round the Chinese city I suppose, Chief, lookin’ for curios?” “Yes,” remarks the engineer officer; “and got two bits of blue and white china and a confoundedly ancient-looking joss.” Ah Hing brings in the soup, and “No. 1” says: “Well, doc, you might tell your adventures to the poor devil who’s had nothing to do but stop aboard the ship in this confounded stinking river.” Thus appealed to the surgeon begins—