"Upon my life, now, but you can't have much comfort aboard here," spoke the frisky little man, in a voice of singular effeminacy, as he tipped the narrow brimmed glazed hat that had covered his narrower head. "As for ourselves," he continued, fingering the great blood stone studs in his brown cambric shirt bosom, "we are navigating merely for the love of the thing. Want to get the thing right, and don't care a straw for the expense, not we!" This he concluded by saying, in a manner so finical that one might have mistaken him for a Bond Street milliner in the garb of a sailor, that his name was Nat Bradshaw, a recently elected member of the Union Club. The little, finicking man addressed no one in particular, but seemed much concerned lest we should not fully comprehend his respectability, though in truth he might have passed easily enough for a fool. The man of the tall figure, and whose frank and manly manner was enough to banish the sorrow excited by the effeminacy of the other, pressed forward with his hand extended, and inquired for the captain. "It's me, Luke Snider, who's skipper," spoke the honest-hearted old salt, as the other grasped him by the hand, and gave him such a warm greeting as made him think he had met an old friend. And while these civilities were being interchanged, one of the damsels, a blonde so beautiful that earth had not, as I thought, another to compare with her, tripped gayly about the deck, singing as unconcernedly as a lark at sunrise: "But give me the sea, And from the old folks free, And we'll wait for the tide to-night! For the tide to-night-for the tide to-night."