“M. de C.,” I read, opened his campaign by stowing away in one of her boats what time H.M.S. _Archimandrite_ lay off Funchal. “M. de C.” was, always on behalf of his country, a Madeira Portuguese fleeing from the conscription. They discovered him eighty miles at sea and bade him assist the cook. So far this seemed fairly reasonable. Next day, thanks to his histrionic powers and his ingratiating address, he was promoted to the rank of “supernumerary captain’s servant”—a “post which,” I give his words, “I flatter myself, was created for me alone, and furnished me with opportunities unequalled for a task in which one word malapropos would have been my destruction.” From this point onward, earth and water between them held no marvels like to those “M. de C.” had “envisaged”—if I translate him correctly. It became clear to me that “M. de C.” was either a pyramidal liar, or… I was not acquainted with any officer, seaman, or marine in the _Archimandrite_; but instinct told me I could not go far wrong if I took a third-class ticket to Plymouth. I gathered information on the way from a leading stoker, two seaman-gunners, and an odd hand in a torpedo factory. They courteously set my feet on the right path, and that led me through the alleys of Devonport to a public-house not fifty yards from the water. We drank with the proprietor, a huge, yellowish man called Tom Wessels; and when my guides had departed, I asked if he could produce any warrant or petty officer of the _Archimandrite_. “The _Bedlamite_, d’you mean—’er last commission, when they all went crazy?” “Shouldn’t wonder,” I replied. “Fetch me a sample and I’ll see.” “You’ll excuse me, o’ course, but—what d’you want ’im _for?_” “I want to make him drunk. I want to make you drunk—if you like. I want to make him drunk here.” “Spoke very ’andsome. I’ll do what I can.” He went out towards the water that lapped at the foot of the street. I gathered from the pot-boy that he was a person of influence beyond Admirals. In a few minutes I heard the noise of an advancing crowd, and the voice of Mr. Wessels. “’E only wants to make you drunk at ’is expense. Dessay ’e’ll stand you all a drink. Come up an’ look at ’im. ’E don’t bite.” A square man, with remarkable eyes, entered at the head of six large bluejackets. Behind them gathered a contingent of hopeful free-drinkers. “’E’s the only one I could get. Transferred to the _Postulant_ six months back. I found ’im quite accidental.” Mr. Wessels beamed. “I’m in charge o’ the cutter. Our wardroom is dinin’ on the beach _en masse_. They won’t be home till mornin’,” said the square man with the remarkable eyes. “Are you an _Archimandrite?_” I demanded. “That’s me. I was, as you might say.” “Hold on. I’m a _Archimandrite._” A Red Marine with moist eyes tried to climb on the table. “Was you lookin’ for a _Bedlamite?_ I’ve—I’ve been invalided, an’ what with that, an’ visitin’ my family ’ome at Lewes, per’aps I’ve come late. ’Ave I?”