It has been said that “Jimmy” is a diplomat. He certainly is. The MELBIDIR had run within hailing distance of another yacht, the owner and commander of which is an old friend of the Protector and “Jimmy.” When we did hail, a silvery head and a sunburnt pair of shoulders popped up from below, and with a comprehensive wave of sunburnt arms--the red type--vanished. Soon the same head and the same shoulders, decently but loosely clad in blue and followed by the rest of the hearty body, emerged, and in a few minutes friends were gripping each other's hands and talking furiously about a particular island, pilots, pearls, and Torres Straits “Jimmy” passed, and the florid man in blue said, nudging his friend, “I seem to know that boy.” “Of course you do,” replied the Protector; “that's 'Jimmy' from T. I.” When “Jimmy” next appeared he had a jug of water in his hand and a bigger smile than ever. “Well, 'Jimmy,' you haven't forgotten me?” suggested the big man in blue. “No. You capitain! My word, you young fellow now!” And we all laughed, for though the years had been tender to the man in blue, still, they had come and gone by the decade since the previous meeting. “Jimmy's” smiles became vocal. Professional diplomats use the great gift of speech, it is said, to delude the enemies of their country. “Jimmy's” adroit compliment was the more delicate in that it was not official and he cannot possess an enemy. When he puckers his lips to whistle, “Jimmy's” smiles are singularly infectious. The Protector's yacht is not a missionary, but merely, as her name signifies, a messenger; but the Protector does not forbid the hymnal. “Jimmy” has one, and as he studies the pious poems, for he reads fluently, whistles appropriately. While we lolled on deck, familiar tunes wooed my wandering thoughts. “Jesu, Lover of my Soul,” came line after line, verse after verse, precisely, though the tone was soft. Was the black boy thus accompanying his work at the pump? No; for the strokes were not in time, and the boy occasionally chatted with his chum. I asked, and was told that “'Jimmy' mak'm good fellow corroboree.” Presently he came up--smiling, and with the last notes of “Abide with Me” on his lips. Then I questioned him, and for a space we discussed our favourite hymns and hummed them, or rather I did, for “Jimmy” was too shy to do more than nod in time before a stranger. He confided, almost in a whisper, that when he was alone he learned the words of the hymns, and afterwards picked up the tunes. Is it not pretty to think of the wrinkled Japanese in bunk beside the hot and clamorous engine conning hymnal--a trifle blotched with grease here and there--and whistling softly those endearing tunes on which so many of us were brought up? Long may “Jimmy” cook and wear blue shoes a modestly supplicate “For those in Peril on the Sea”! That he may smile to the last would be a superfluous prayer. He cannot do else. UP AND AWAY