“’E’ll probably ’old three gallon (look sharp with that dinghy!); but ’is nephew, left in charge of the _Agatha_, wants two bottles command-allowance. You’re a tax-payer, Sir. Do you think that excessive?” “Lead there! Lead!” rang out from forward. “Didn’t I say ’e wouldn’t understand compass deviations? Watch him close. It’ll be worth it!” As I neared the bridge I heard the stranger say: “Let me zmell un!” and to his nose was the lead presented by a trained man of the King’s Navy. “I’ll tell ’ee where to goo, if yeou’ll tell your donkey-man what to du. I’m no hand wi’ steam.” On these lines we proceeded miraculously, and, under Moorshed’s orders—I was the fisherman’s Ganymede, even as “M. de C.” had served the captain—I found both rum and curaçoa in a locker, and mixed them equal bulk in an enamelled iron cup. “Now we’m just abeam o’ where we should be,” he said at last, “an’ here we’ll lay till she lifts. I’d take ’e in for another bottle—and wan for my nevvy; but I reckon yeou’m shart-allowanced for rum. That’s nivver no Navy rum yeou’m give me. Knowed ’ee by the smack tu un. Anchor now!” I was between Pyecroft and Moorshed on the bridge, and heard them spring to vibrating attention at my side. A man with a lead a few feet to port caught the panic through my body, and checked like a wild boar at gaze, for not far away an unmistakable ship’s bell was ringing. It ceased, and another began. “Them!” said Pyecroft. “Anchored!” “More!” said our pilot, passing me the cup, and I filled it. The trawler astern clattered vehemently on her bell. Pyecroft with a jerk of his arm threw loose the forward three-pounder. The bar of the back-sight was heavily blobbed with dew; the foresight was invisible. “No—they wouldn’t have their picket-boats out in this weather, though they ought to.” He returned the barrel to its crotch slowly. “Be yeou gwine to anchor?” said Macduff, smacking his lips, “or be yeou gwine straight on to Livermead Beach?” “Tell him what we’re driving at. Get it into his head somehow,” said Moorshed; and Pyecroft, snatching the cup from me, enfolded the old man with an arm and a mist of wonderful words. “And if you pull it off,” said Moorshed at the last, “I’ll give you a fiver.”