Exultantly we left the office, looking back through the window to see our compatriot waving farewell, while his wife, patting her pompadour with one hand, fluttered her handkerchief with the other. By dock and arsenal, through sounds of clanging furnaces and roar of forges, we passed to the street we sought and to the house, a house of mark which bore proudly upon its front a life-size picture of a diver completely apparisoned, with the words “J. Miggs, Diver,” in very small letters below. The low, dark door gave entrance to a small shop, where a man, whistling cheerfully, was using a small soldering tool on a diver’s helmet, assisted by a boy clad in a ticking apron. The man was J. Miggs. Our friend Thompson’s card brought a sudden stop to the cheerful whistle, and it was with a somewhat troubled face that J. Miggs rose, sending his young assistant from the room. The boy out, he locked both doors to the shop carefully, and returned to us. “Mr. Thompson says that you want a diver,” said Miggs, in a low voice. “I’d do anything I could for Mr. Thompson. Many’s the good job he’s got for me, but I can’t, I absolutely can’t. We’ve been forbidden to take any jobs at all. Notice was served on every diver in town, and me and my partner can’t risk it.” “What’s your regular rate for going down here in the harbor?” asked Tom. “Two pounds a day, sir, for each of us. Four pounds for the two, if me and my partner work together.” “I’ll give you ten pounds apiece for one night’s work,” said Tom. The man wavered. “I’ve no money for a fortnight, sir, and I’d like to do it, but I dare not; the officers would put me out of business, and I’ve got to support my family.” Tom persisted. “I’ll give you ten pounds for your family, and ten pounds more when you go down.” J. Miggs took thought, hesitated, wavered, and at length capitulated. “I’ll do it, sir,” he said, “if you’ll do one thing. If they take my diving rig away, will you agree to pay for a new one?” “I will,” said Tom, “and I’ll leave the price of it with Mr. Thompson to-night.” His last scruples vanished, and J. Miggs was ours. “We’ve got two suits over at Brading Harbor, on the Isle of Wight, where we were working. If you’ll tell me your place, we’ll meet you to-night where you’re staying, take you across in the motor boat, get the suits, and get back in time to have five or six hours to work, wherever you say. But it must be to-night. To-night’s the last night without a moon.” Leaving J. Miggs our address, we went back to our lodgings, by way of Southsea Castle and the piers, to take a preliminary observation of the buoy of the “R’yal Jarge.” We had swallowed a hasty supper, laid in a good store of clothing for the chill of night on the water, and were waiting patiently for the call, when there was a knock at the door. As it opened, there entered not J. Miggs, but his small boy helper, whom we had seen earlier.