At the loop-hole Nelson's old foretop-man watched and waited. A gleam smote his silver hair and prophetic forehead. Kit watched him wondering. The old man, so tranquil amid the stir and whisper of death, affected the boy as One years ago had affected other seamen tempest-tossed. His chattering heart hushed as a sparrow hushes in the quiet of a great cathedral. Then the world rushed in on him with a shout. Again that gust of laughter outside, that roaring chorus. The Gap Gang were making merry. The contrast revolted the lad. The table on which he sat began to rattle. Quietly he slipped off it. But the old foretop-man had heard. Leaving his post, he came rumbling across the uneven flags. "The waitin time's generally always the worst time, sir," he whispered. "Sooner farty actions than wait for one--I've hard Lard Nelson say it himsalf." "I am a bit--quaky," replied the boy, and would have admitted as much to no other man, and to few women. "And none the worse for that, sir. It's a poor heart that can't feel fear. If a man's not a bit timersome about facin his Maker, then he ought to be. Pluck's doin your duty although you are afear'd. You'll be right enough once you're in it, surely.... And if you're not above a hint from a man before the mast, sir, you'll take them shoes off. Boardin-parties bare-fut--that was ollus the word aboard the _Agamemnon_.... Ah, Knapp, feelin slap?" "Ay, fit to run for me life or fight for it," bubbled the little rifleman, prancing out of his corner. The Parson beckoned Kit. "You see his sort," he whispered. "The chap's as full of meat and mischief as a lion-cub." He turned again. "Knapp," he said solemnly, "this is your officer. He's coming with you to see you off. He carries the King's commission as truly as I do. You'll obey him as you would me, and no nonsense, d'you see?" "Very good, sir," said the little man, jigging and bobbing. "I'm all of a pop like. Seems I might go off any moment." "Any tomfoolery and you will go off," replied the Parson sternly--"out of this world into the next--pop! as you say yourself. You've only one chance against the finest marksmen in the world, and that's to show em a clean pair of heels. If you don't, you've fought your last fight, my lad! Ginger Jake's cock of the South." The last words went home. The little rifleman became very grave. He swung round to Piper in his swift bird-like way. "Mr. Piper, pop off a prayer for us." The common-sense saint lifted his head. "God elp and strengthen your legs, Nipper Knapp," he prayed. "That's the point, O Lord!--his legs!" punctuated the Parson.