Here Philpotts was guilty of the indiscretion of sighing. Neville, fearing he would show himself too much the prisoner's friend for his own good, turned upon him with simulated fierceness. "Sirrah, I will have none of your officious sighing as if I were already as good as a dead man. Keep your breath to cool your porridge. When I want it I'll ask for it. "Now," turning again to his interlocutor, "as for the second clause, you ask a trifle too much. As much of your will as I must obey I shall, and with three against one to enforce it that share seems likely to be well-nigh the whole; but as to the cheerfulness with which I meet it, that must needs depend on God and my own mind. But make haste ere those cakes be cold to unbind me and let me have at them!" "Are you satisfied with the prisoner's promise?" The other two men nodded, and Philpotts went on deck again. The stripling began in a trice to undo the ropes which bound Neville, whereupon he fell to and made as hearty a breakfast as ever he laid in on firm land with high hopes and bright prospects. When they were come out of the cabin again, he noticed that the boat had changed her course and was running with a beam wind. "Why, how's this?" he asked of Philpotts as he took his seat once more by the stern. "Surely this ketch is not laying her course for St. Mary's." "Do not ask me, sir! I'm not the captain of this infernal ketch. In truth, I'm no sailor at all, and would be right glad if I could be set ashore this minute." Neville could have laughed as he saw the green and yellow melancholy that too surely tells the story of coming sea-sickness, but pity ruled and he said sympathetically, "Go you below, and I'll keep the helm till you have braced your insides with some hot meat and drink." "How's this?" cried the tall man, coming on deck just as Neville reached for the tiller. "Mutiny already! Troth, I have a pair of irons below, and you shall be clapped in them if I see you move toward the tiller again. Philpotts, give me the helm and go below!" Neville shrugged his shoulders, but refrained from speech. He withdrew his outstretched hand, pulled his hat over his eyes, and sat gazing over the sail at the blue distance which seemed of a sudden peopled with all the friends of a lifetime. He could see his father and mother seated by the great stone fireplace at Frome Hall, the Irish setter with his head on his master's knee. Yes, and there in her own little chair, the tiny Peggy, with rebellious curls shaken back every now and again from the bright eyes beneath them, and then the quick lighting up of the face, the leaning forward of the little figure as Christopher himself entered the room with his game-bag over his shoulder, the eager peep into the bag, and the jumping up and down with delight as she counted the tale of the day's success.