"If," said Mr. Sturge, with a comprehensive wave of the hand, "if along yon coast, in cove or bay or any natural recess--call it how you will--there lurk a bench of magistrates insensate enough, as you believe, to uphold this violation of a British subject's liberty, steer for them, sir! I challenge you to steer for them! I can say no fairer than that. Select what tribunal you please, sir, and I will demonstrate before it that I and my companions, in spite of appearances, are _no_ seamen. You are to understand that by this disclaimer I cast no reflection upon even the humblest toiler of the deep. Nay, while myself inept either to trim the sail or net the finny tribes, I respect those hardy callings--no man more so. Only I claim that my own profession exempts me from this respectable but un-congenial service; and that in short, sir, by forcibly trepanning me, you have rendered yourself liable to swingeing damages, besides inviting public attention to the fact that you were senselessly intoxicated last night." This harangue, admirably delivered, took Captain Crang between wind and water. It was in vain he looked to his first officer for help. Mr. Wapshott, still swaying by the poop rail, lifted and wagged an admonitory forefinger. "No use y'r asking me," said Mr. Wapshott. "_I_ didn't dine with the Duke." He paused and asked with sudden inconsequent heartiness, "Well, and how did you get along, you two?" "If only I could tell!" murmured Captain Crang, passing a hand over his brow. "Not stuck-up, I hope? Affable? I'll bet any man sixpence he was affable. Mind you, I don't speak from 'xperience," went on Mr. Wapshott, more in sorrow than in anger. "_I_ don't dine out with Admirals of the Fleet. The Blood Royal don't invite James Wapshott to take a cup of kindness yet for auld lang syne, for auld lang syne, my dear, for auld. . . . You'll excuse me, sir, some little emotion; Robert Burns--Robbie--affecting beggar, mor' specially in his homelier passages. A ploughman, sir; and from Ayrshire, damme!" "'Wee sleekit crimson-tippit beastie--'" "Are you addressing me, sir?" roared Captain Crang. "Norratall. Field-mouse. _That_"--Mr. Wapshott drew himself up-- "_that's_ the 'stonishing thing about it." "Go to your cabin, sir," the Captain commanded; "and you, Mr. What's-your-name, come below and explain yourself."