"Moreover," went on Dick, determined to break the ice, "I'm your second mate." "Wot?" roared Stump, leaning forward and placing a hand on each knee, while his fiery glance took in every detail of Royson's appearance. "You--my--second--mate?" The words formed a crescendo of contemptuous analysis. But Dick faced the storm boldly. "Yes," he said. "I don't see any harm in stating the fact, now that I know who you are." "Harm! Who said anything about harm? Wot sort of sailor d'ye call yerself? Who ever heard of a sailor in knickers?" Then it dawned on Royson that the captain's wrath was comprehensible. There is in every male Briton who goes abroad an ingrained instinct that leads him to don a costume usually associated with a Highland moor. Why this should be no man can tell, but nine out of ten Englishmen cross the Channel in sporting attire, and Royson was no exception to the rule. In his case a sheer revolt against the "office" suit had induced him to dress in clothes which recalled one glorious summer on the Westmoreland hills. Their incongruity did not appeal to him until Captain Stump forcibly drew attention thereto, and his hearty laugh at the way in which he was enlightened did not tend to soothe his skipper's indignation. "Second mate!" bellowed Stump again, calling the heavens to witness that there never was such another, "Where's yer ticket? Seein' is believin', they say. Who did you go to sea with? When did you pass?" "I have no certificate, if that is what you mean, and I have never been to sea," said Royson. This remark impressed Stump as an exquisite joke. His rage yielded to a rumble of hoarse laughter. "Lord love a duck!" he guffawed. "If only I'd ha' knowed, I could have told my missus. It would have cheered her up for a week. Never mind. We've a few minutes in Dover. I'll send her a picture postcard. It'll 'arf tickle 'er to death." Evidently the captain meant to add certain explanatory remarks which would account for that Gargantuan tickling. Dick, anxious not to offend his future commander, smiled sheepishly, and said: "Sorry I can't supply you with a photograph." Stump's gaze rested on his stockings, loose breeches, Norfolk jacket and deerstalker cap. "Damme," he grinned, "it's better than a pantomime. Second mate! Is there any more like you on the train? P'haps that chap in the next caboose, in a fur coat an' top hat, is the steward. An' wot'll Tagg say?" "I don't know," said Dick, half inclined to resent this open scorn. "Who is Tagg, anyhow?"