It was a desolate place where Captain Brisbane had abandoned Louis Belgrave; but the latter did not find himself in a desperate strait, or compare himself with Robinson Crusoe. He had been supplied with about half a cold ham, a quantity of hard bread, and a breaker of water, so that he and his companion were not likely to perish with hunger or thirst. The piece of sailcloth, rigged on a pole which the mate had prepared as a signal, had been left. A vessel in the distance could be hailed, and at worst a walk of six or eight miles would take them to an inhabited locality. “Which we may ’ave to stay ’ere a week, sir,” suggested Bickling, after he had walked about the sand hills for a time. “It is possible, but I don’t believe we shall,” replied Louis cheerfully, for he had made up his mind to be contented, however long he was compelled to remain; and the only thing that troubled him was the absence of his mother. “Which it is no worse for me, sir, than it is for you as is a gentleman, sir,” added Bickling, gently opening his mouth in a grin which extended nearly from ear to ear, which was a surprise to his employer, for the cook generally wore a very solemn expression. “It is about the same thing for both of us.” “’Ow shall we hever get hoff, sir?” asked Bickling, looking earnestly into the face of his companion, as though he was deeply interested in the expected reply. “I expect a steam-yacht to take me off; but I do not know when she will come,” answered Louis, who cast frequent glances at the ocean, though he hardly expected to see the Guardian-Mother so soon. “A steam-yacht, sir!” exclaimed the cook. “And ’ow big might she be?” “About six hundred tons.” “Which she is owned by Captain Ringgold, the fine gentleman as was on board of the Maud with you, sir?” asked Bickling, opening his eyes very wide. “No; I shall be the owner of her myself, I think.” “Which it is you, sir, as owns a steam-yacht of six ’undred tons!” exclaimed the cook, rising from the ground on which both were seated, and involuntarily removing his hat. “Nothing very strange about that, is there?” asked the yacht owner with an expansive smile. “Which you are a very young gentleman to own a steam-yacht as big as that!” added Bickling, looking his companion all over as he would a live lobster. “Can it be possible? Which it must be as you says so. You must be as rich as Grease-us, sir.” “I shall not have to go to the almshouse this year. What is your name, Bickling?” “Which it is Bickling, sir; and I never denies my name, sir,” replied the cook, evidently very much surprised at the question. “I mean your front name.” “Which Bickling is my back name, is it, sir? Which my front name must be Baldwin, sir; and people as I meets most calls me Baldy,” responded the cook, taking off his soft hat, and passing his hand over the top of his head, which had no more hair on it than a pumpkin.