“It’s good for you,” said the third lady positively. “One—two———” “It’s no good,” said the mate as Ephraim came suddenly into the rigging; “you’ll have to give in.” “I’m damned if I will,” said the infuriated skipper. Then an idea occurred to him, and puckering his face shrewdly he began to descend. “All right,” he said shortly, as Miss Evans advanced to receive him. “I’ll go back.” He took the wheel; the schooner came round before the wind, and the willing crew, letting the sheets go, hauled them in again on the port side. “And now, my lads,” said the skipper with a benevolent smile, “just clear that mess up off the decks, and you may as well pitch them mops overboard. They’ll never be any good again.” He spoke carelessly, albeit his voice trembled a little, but his heart sank within him as Miss Evans, with a horrible contortion of her pretty face, intended for a wink, waved them back. “You stay where you are,” she said imperiously; “we’ll throw them overboard—when we’ve done with them. What did you say, captain?” The skipper was about to repeat it with great readiness when Miss Evans raised her trusty mop. The words died away on his lips, and after a hopeless glance from his mate to the crew and from the crew to the rigging, he accepted his defeat, and in grim silence took them home again. PICKLED HERRING There was a sudden uproar on deck, and angry shouts, accompanied by an incessant barking; the master of the brig _Arethusa_ stopped with his knife midway to his mouth, and exchanging glances with the mate, put it down and rose to his feet. “They’re chevying that poor animal again,” he said hotly. “It’s scandalous.” “Rupert can take care of himself,” said the mate calmly, continuing his meal. “I expect, if the truth’s known, it’s him ’s been doin’ the chevying.” “You’re as bad as the rest of ’em,” said the skipper angrily, as a large brown retriever came bounding into the cabin. “Poor old Rupe! what have they been doin’ to you?” The dog, with a satisfied air, sat down panting by his chair, listening quietly to the subdued hubbub which sounded from the companion. “Well, what is it?” roared the skipper, patting his favourite’s head. “It’s that blasted dawg, sir,” cried an angry voice from above. “Go down and show ’im your leg, Joe.” “An’ ’ave another lump took out of it, I s’pose,” said another voice sourly. “Not me.” “I don’t want to look at no legs while I’m at dinner,” cried the skipper. “O’ course the dog ’ll bite you if you’ve been teasing him.” “There’s nobody been teasing ’im,” said the angry voice again. “That’s the second one ’e’s bit, and now Joe’s goin’ to have ’im killed—ain’t you, Joe?” Joe’s reply was not audible, although the infuriated skipper was straining his ears to catch it. “Who’s going to have the dog killed?” he demanded, going up on deck, while Rupert, who evidently thought he had an interest in the proceedings, followed unobtrusively behind.