"Yessir," ses Bill, in a surprised sort o' voice. "Same gang," ses the skipper. "Same gang as knocked Mr. Fingall about, you may depend upon it. Mr. Fingall, it's a mercy for you you didn't get your face blacked too." I thought the mate would ha' burst. I can't understand how any man could swell as he swelled without bursting. "I don't believe a word of it," he ses, at last. "Why not?" ses the skipper, sharply. "Well, I don't," ses the mate, his voice trembling with passion. "I 'ave my reasons." "I s'pose you don't think these two poor fellows went and blacked themselves for fun, do you?" ses the skipper. The mate couldn't answer. "And then went and knocked themselves about for more fun?" says the skipper, very sarcastic. The mate didn't answer. He looked round helpless like, and see the third officer swopping glances with the second, and all the men looking sly and amused, and I think if ever a man saw 'e was done 'e did at that moment. He turned away and went below, and the skipper arter reading us all a little lecture on getting into fights without reason, sent the two chaps below ag'in and told 'em to turn in and rest. He was so good to 'em all the way 'ome, and took sich a interest in seeing 'em change from black to brown and from light brown to spotted lemon, that the mate daren't do nothing to them, but gave us their share of what he owed them as well as an extra dose of our own. _Animal Actualities._ NOTE.--_Under this title we intend printing a series of perfectly authentic anecdotes of animal life, illustrated by Mr. J. A. Shepherd, an artist long a favorite of_ THE STRAND MAGAZINE. _We shall be glad to receive similar anecdotes, fully authenticated by names of witnesses, for use in future numbers. While the stories themselves will be matters of fact, it must be understood that the artist will treat the subject with freedom and fancy, more with a view to an amusing commentary than to a mere representation of the occurrence_. [Illustration: VIII. The Disappearing Chickens.] This incident took place in the spring of 1897, at French's Farm, Netherfield, near Battle, Sussex. This farm lies in the midst of the chicken-raising district, and it was at the time in the occupation of Mr. W. A. Williams. Mr. Williams, among his other farm operations, reared thousands of chickens, which the travelling higglers would collect and fatten for the market. Most of these chickens were hatched in an incubator and reared by aid of a foster-mother--which latter, by the way, is not a motherly old hen, as some might suppose, but a sort of box lined with flannel. Sometimes it is merely an old coop. [Illustration: MOTHERLESS AND INQUISITIVE.]