“Yes; and don’t make so much noise,” said Mrs. Henshaw, tartly; “he’s asleep.” The two gentlemen turned and gazed at each other in stupefaction. Mr. Stokes was the first to recover, and, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away. At the end of the street he took a deep breath, and, after a slight pause to collect his scattered energies, summed up the situation. [Illustration: “Mr. Stokes, taking his dazed friend by the arm, led him gently away.”] “She’s twigged it all along,” he said, with conviction. “You’ll have to come home with me tonight, and to-morrow the best thing you can do is to make a clean breast of it. It was a silly game, and, if you remember, I was against it from the first.” MIXED RELATIONS [Illustration] MIXED RELATIONS The brig _Elizabeth Barstow_ came up the river as though in a hurry to taste again the joys of the Metropolis. The skipper, leaning on the wheel, was in the midst of a hot discussion with the mate, who was placing before him the hygienic, economical, and moral advantages of total abstinence in language of great strength but little variety. “Teetotallers eat more,” said the skipper, finally. The mate choked, and his eye sought the galley. “Eat more?” he spluttered. “Yesterday the meat was like brick-bats; to-day it tasted like a bit o’ dirty sponge. I’ve lived on biscuits this trip; and the only tater I ate I’m going to see a doctor about direckly I get ashore. It’s a sin and a shame to spoil good food the way ’e does.” “The moment I can ship another cook he goes,” said the skipper. “He seems busy, judging by the noise.” “I’m making him clean up everything, ready for the next,” explained the mate, grimly. “And he ’ad the cheek to tell me he’s improving—improving!” “He’ll go as soon as I get another,” repeated the skipper, stooping and peering ahead. “I don’t like being poisoned any more than you do. He told me he could cook when I shipped him; said his sister had taught him.” The mate grunted and, walking away, relieved his mind by putting his head in at the galley and bidding the cook hold up each separate utensil for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly attributed to elbow-grease. The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the traffic, sought her old berth at Buller’s Wharf. It was occupied by a deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and consoled itself with adjectives. The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the _Elizabeth Barstow_, after making fast, went below to prepare themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his toilet.