“D’you know where the _Vera_ ’angs out?” the coxswain asked quickly, before the other had time to hail him. “Lyin’ outside at anchor. Comin’ to ’er buoy to-morrer.” “Outside the ruddy ’arbour?” “Yes.” “Gawd!” The coxswain sat down disconsolately. “We shall ’ave a night of it,” he observed. The music of the oars began again. They pulled slowly between the ships, beyond the ships, out of the harbour. Soon the _Vera_, an outpost of twinkling lights, beyond which lay the open sea, was hailing them. Much to his surprise, John was welcomed by the officer of the watch. “That infernal target?” he said. “It _is_ alongside the wall--right at the far end. What an hour to send you out after it! I’m afraid you have a long job of repairs; it was knocked about a bit. Come down into the Wardroom before you start.” John went below and accepted whisky and soda, an illegal proceeding, for by regulation he was too young to drink spirits. They offered cigarettes, and when he refused to smoke one because his crew was waiting, they gave him a handful to take away with him. “You’ll have time to smoke them all before you get home to-night,” said the Gunnery Lieutenant. “Well, so long. You will have luck if you are turned in before the end of the middle watch. Sorry you have had so far to come.” A long pull shoreward brought the cutter at last to the target. John turned out the carpenter’s party and all the boat’s crew save one, whom he kept with him as a boat-keeper. John soon found that in the man he had retained he was to have a remarkable companion. He came aft, seated himself in the stern sheets, and looked up expectantly. “’Ave a smoke, sir?” “Yes; carry on smoking.” “’Ave a cigar, sir?” John hesitated. He would have felt safer with one of the _Vera’s_ cigarettes. He was not inured to cigars, but for company’s sake he took one and lighted it. “Funny thing, sir,” the man said, “these night trips always make me feel mysterious-like. You feel more powerful some’ow in the dark. Do it take you that way, sir?” “Powerful?” John asked, wondering how much this had in common with his own sensation. “Same as you feel, sir, when you’re alone, an’ there ain’t no one to see ’ow small you are. I always thinks then o’ the things I might do if I liked--but it don’t seem a fair advantage to take o’ folk what aren’t made the same way.” “What do you mean?” “It’s this way, sir. You see, I can make people do things--anything. I don’t rightly know what the name of it is--’ypnotism, or mesmerism, or the like. It don’t make much odds what they call it. But I can make people do things all right, I can, an’ ’ere they are makin’ me do things all day. I’m a proper bad ’at, I am--always on the carpet. I get to feel angry like, knowin’ the power I ’ave. I did a turn at a ship’s concert once--afore you young gen’lemen joined--an’ the Commander, ’e won’t ’ave me doin’ it no more.” “Could you make me do things now?”