"I know that English sailors always undervalue their good deeds. But happily my father is a rich man, and when you land us he will take care that no man on board this ship shall complain of his gratitude." "Oh, he's rich!" exclaimed the carpenter, as though struck with a new idea. "Very rich." "How rich might he be, mam?" "Well, he owned the ship that you saved us from--cargo and ship." She could not have offered a better illustration of her father's wealth to the man, for he would appreciate the value of a vessel of that size. "And what do you think he'll give the men--them as saved him, I suppose?" "Oh, he won't make any difference. He is indebted to you all, for I have heard that the captain would not have stopped for us had he not been obliged to do so by the crew." "That's true enough," rejoined the carpenter with an oath, looking at me. "Perfectly true," I made haste to say. "My father would not certainly offer less than one hundred pounds to each man," she said quite simply. He pulled off his cap at this and twirled it and let it drop; picked it up so slowly that I thought he would never bend his body sufficiently to enable him to recover it; looked at her sideways as he put it on his head again, and then said to me with offensive abruptness-- "Come, master, let's have a look at that blooming chart." I opened the door to let Miss Robertson pass out, exchanging one glance with her as she left, and addressed myself to the carpenter. He pored over the chart with his dirty forefinger upon it. "Whereabouts are we now?" he inquired. I pointed to the spot as near as I could judge from yesterday's reckonings. "What's this here line?" he asked. "That's the longitude." He ran his eye to the bottom of the chart and exclaimed-- "Thirty. Is that it?" "Call it thirty." "But what do _you_ call it?" "Thirty, I tell you--thirty degrees west longitude." "And this here line's the latitude, I suppose?" "Yes." "That's forty." "Call it forty-four." "Will that make it right?" "Pretty nearly." "What are all these here dots and streaks?" said he, after squinting with his nose close to the chart. "Blowed if ever I could read them small words." "They are the Azores." "Oh, we're to the norrards o' them, aren't we?" he inquired sharply. "You can see for yourself," I answered, putting my finger on the chart. "Where's this blessed Gulf of Mexico?" he inquired, after casting his eyes all over the chart. "There." He ran his dirty thumbnail in a line to the the Gulf, and asked me what that blot was. "Bermuda." "You'll keep south o' that, will yer?" "If I can, certainly." "It's a man-o'-war station, I've heerd." "I believe it is." "All right," he said, and looking at the boat's compass on the table, asked if it were true. I told him it was; whereupon he set it on the chart and compared its indications with the line he had run down the chart, and was going away, when I said--