“You’re right,” my friend responded, “she’s a remarkably pretty model, and the owners don’t mind spending a few pounds on keeping her up; and then, of course, a vessel that goes foreign has to be fitted out a little differently to a craft like that,” and he nodded superciliously at a grimy, battered collier that lay close by, “that’s always mucking about in harbours and rivers round the coast. But here we are--mind your shins on this ladder. Anyone on board, Moloney?” “No, sorr,” replied a tall sailor who was pacing the deck in company with a portly black cat. “Misther Jobling and Misther Darvill have gone to the theayterr, and the new stcheward hasn’t come aboard yet.” “All right, Michael,” said the Captain, for such I judged him to be; “when the steward comes aboard send him to me.” “Ay, ay, sorr,” replied Moloney, smartly touching his cap; and having adroitly hoisted the cat some half-dozen paces along the deck with his foot, he resumed his walk, apostrophising his feline companion in a grumbling bass as he went. “Will ye kape out o’ the fairway, ye great, fat, lazy, lollopin’ black divil!” But I noticed that the pair seemed on excellent terms despite the Irishman’s rather abrupt manner. The cabin, as we entered from the dark companionway, looked singularly cosy and homelike. A large oil lamp which swung from one of the deck beams shed a cheerful light over the little interior and showed it to be in keeping with the brig’s smart design and rig. The panelling was of mahogany and bird’s-eye maple, the ceiling was painted a dead white; broad, cushioned lockers surrounded the table--now gay with a crimson cloth--and the aperture of the skylight was covered in by handsome red silk curtains. “This is my little home,” said my host, looking round, somewhat complacently I thought, upon the trim little apartment, “and I bid you welcome in it, Mr. ----” “Englefield,” said I. “Richard Englefield.” “My name is Bithery,” my companion volunteered in return. “Christian name Nicholas, trade or profession master mariner, of Bristol City, at present commander of the brig _Lady Jane_, from Hamburg to the West Coast of Africa.” As he, half jokingly, furnished these details, the Captain’s face again lighted up with the singularly genial smile that I had observed before, in which its trifling deformity was forgotten. “Sit ye down there on that locker,” said he, and proceeded to make the most formidable preparations for a carouse, reaching out of a cupboard in the bulkhead a veritable battalion of bottles--high-shouldered Dutch bottles, tall brown stone German jars, squat bloated bottles of unknown nationality, and lastly a bottle of old French brandy. Then he discharged a cargo of cigars from his coat pocket, and taking a couple of tumblers and a water bottle from the swing tray that hung above the table, he sat down with a sigh of content.