At last he came upon a man and a woman, a remarkable pair under any circumstances, but specially interesting to him, seeing that the man gripped an ancient carpet bag on which was pasted a label with the glaring superscription: "Captain John Stump, yacht _Aphrodite_, Marsails." The address was half written, half printed, and the quaintly phonetic spelling of the concluding word betrayed a rugged independence of thought which was certainly borne out by Captain John Stump's appearance. The written label might be wrong; not so that stamped by Neptune on a weather-beaten face and a figure like a capstan. Little more than five feet in height, he seemed to be quite five feet wide. If it be true that a poet is born, not made, Captain Stump was a master mariner from his cradle. Royson had never before seen such a man. Drawn out to Royson's stature he would yet have remained the broader of the two. The lady with him, evidently Mrs. Stump, was mated for him by happy chance. Short mean usually marry tall women, and your sons of Anak will select wives of fairy-like proportions. But Mrs. Stump was even shorter than her husband, and so plump withal, that a tape measure round her shoulders might have given her the prize for girth. Captain Stump was examining the interior of each carriage suspiciously when he set eyes on the P. & O. officers. "Port yer helium, Becky," he growled, and the two turned to the right-about. It happened that he entered Royson's compartment. There were not many first-class passengers that night, so Royson promptly took possession of his own corner, lit a pipe, and unobtrusively watched his future commander. This was not difficult, as Stump stood near the open door, and each word he uttered was audible. "Don't want to berth alongside sailor-men to-night, Becky," he said, after sizing up Dick in a comprehensive glance. "Them's my sailin' orders. 'Hoist no colors,' sez he, 'until you bring to at Marseilles.'" "What's your first port of call, John?" asked his wife. "Dunno. I'll send you a wire." A pause. Then Mrs. Stump: "Will you be long in Marseilles, John?" Dick thought that this would be impossible anywhere, but Stump answered: "Mebbe half an hour, mebbe a week. You know all that I know, Becky." "It's funny." Captain Stump spat, and agreed that it was--emphatically funny. A ticket inspector approached. "Going on, sir?" he asked. "Goin' on? Of course I am. What in thunder d'ye think I'm stannin' here for?" demanded the captain. "But if you stand there, sir, you'll get left," said the official good-humoredly. "Better get in, John, an' don't argy with the gentleman," said Mrs. Stump. Her husband obeyed, grudgingly. The inspector examined his ticket, and Royson's, and locked the door. "Nice thing!" grumbled Stump. "I can't give you a good-by hug now, Becky."