"_Playmate_, ahoy!" The waterman jerked one oar into his boat and with the other skilfully checked her way till she gently rubbed sides with the yacht. "Hallo, there! Is that you, Cartridge?" "Yes, sir; I've brought a gent off to see you." There was the sound of a hasty scuffling, the awning was partially unlaced, and a hand holding a lantern appeared, followed by the head and shoulders of the owner of the cutter _Playmate_. The rays of the lamp fell upon the features of the owner. He had a somewhat long, thin face, with a characteristically square jaw, and light eyebrows that formed an almost continuous line across his brows. "Hallo, you!" he exclaimed, as the identity of his visitor was revealed. "I'd given you up." "So it appears," replied Tregarthen. "Didn't you get my wire?" "Wire--what wire? But don't stay there; come aboard. You'd better use the fore-hatch, unlacing this awning is a blessed nuisance." Stockton's head vanished as its owner retreated into the cabin. Tregarthen, having paid the boatman, seized the main shrouds and swung himself lightly on deck. Then making his way for'ard he removed the partially open hatchway leading to the fo'c'sle. "Hold on! Hold on a minute!" shouted Jack. "You're putting your foot into the soup!" Checking his downward progress just in time, Gerald waited till the skipper, and cook combined, removed a saucepan from the top of a roaring Primus stove, pushed the stove out of the way, and gave the word that all was clear. The next instant Tregarthen found himself in the fo'c'sle. It was a small, wedge-shaped apartment, barely 4ft. in height and 7ft. wide at its broadest part, tapering away to less than 6ins. for'ard. This limited space was still further curtailed by a number of lockers and cupboards, the stove, a bundle of sails and warps, and the still weed-covered chain cable. Jack Stockton, pipe in mouth, and huddled up on an upturned bucket, was busily engaged in preparing some flat-fish, that he had just caught, for supper. Gerald began to cough. What with the heat of the stove, the tobacco smoke, the combined odours of the fish, the soup, and the seaweed, to say nothing of the smoky paraffin lamp, made the confined quarters well-nigh unbearable. It was infinitely worse than the fo'c'sle of a destroyer in a heavy seaway, yet Stockton endured it with equanimity--even with pleasure. It was one of the joys of yachting in the rough. "Excuse the mess!" he exclaimed. "You see, I didn't expect you after the arrival of the train you agreed upon. But I'll have everything shipshape in a jiffy. Where's your gear?" "On deck." "Then bring it below. You may as well get into the cabin, and I'll be with you soon. Mind your head!" The warning came too late. Tregarthen forgot that the cabin of a 4-ton yacht is a mere dog-kennel compared with the diminutive wardroom of _H.M.S. Calder_, but luckily his thick cap saved his skull from a nasty blow from a deck beam.