“And mind,” said the skipper as he turned away, “I leave it in your keepin’, and if it’s missing I shall understand that you’ve made away with it, and I shall take it as a sign of guilt, and act according.” The end came sooner even than he expected. They were at breakfast next morning when Joe, looking somewhat pale, came down to the cabin, followed by Clark, bearing before him an empty plate. “Well?” said the skipper fiercely. “It’s about the ’erring, sir,” said Joe, twisting his cap between his hands. “Well?” roared the skipper again. “It’s gone, sir,” said Joe, in bereaved accents. “You mean you’ve thrown it away, you infernal rascal!” bellowed the skipper. “No, sir,” said Joe. “Ah! I s’pose it walked up on deck and jumped overboard,” said the mate. “No, sir,” said Joe softly. “The dog ate it, sir.” The skipper swung round in his seat and regarded him open-mouthed. “The—dog—ate—it?” he repeated. “Yes, sir; Clark saw ’im do it—didn’t you, Clark?” “I did,” said Clark promptly. He had made his position doubly sure by throwing it overboard himself. “It comes to the same thing, sir,” said Joe sanctimoniously; “my innercence is proved just the same. You’ll find the dog won’t take no ’urt through it, sir. You watch ’im.” The skipper breathed hard, but made no reply. “If you don’t believe me, sir, p’raps you’d like to see the plate where ’e licked it?” said Joe. “Give me the plate, Sam.” He turned to take it, but in place of handing it to him that useful witness dropped it and made hurriedly for the companion-ladder, and by strenuous efforts reached the deck before Joe, although that veracious gentleman, assisted from below by strong and willing arms, made a good second. TWO OF A TRADE “’E’s a nero, that’s wot ’e is, sir,” said the cook, as he emptied a boiler of dirty water overboard. “A what?” said the skipper. “A nero,” said the cook, speaking very slowly and distinctly. “A nero in real life, a chap wot, speaking for all for’ard, we’re proud to have aboard along with us.” “I didn’t know he was much of a swimmer,” said the skipper, glancing curiously at a clumsily-built man of middle age, who sat on the hatch glancing despondently at the side. “No more ’e ain’t,” said the cook, “an’ that’s what makes ’im more ’eroish still in my own opinion.” “Did he take his clothes off?” inquired the mate. “Not a bit of it,” said the delighted cook; “not a pair of trowsis, nor even ’is ’at, which was sunk.” “You’re a liar, cook,” said the hero, looking up for a moment. “You didn’t take your trowsis off, George?” said the cook anxiously. “I chucked my ’at on the pavement,” growled George, without looking up. “Well, anyway, you went over the Embankment after that pore girl like a Briton, didn’t you?” said the other. There was no reply. “Didn’t you?” said the cook appealingly. “Did you expect me to go over like a Dutchman, or wot?” demanded George fiercely.