Louis realized that he was actually alone for the present. If Uncle Moses had been on board he would have seen that his _protégé_ had an excellent opportunity to practise his calling as a knight-errant; for even in the days of chivalry these worthies had to use their skill, ingenuity, and prowess in getting out of scrapes, as well as in plunging into them. But “Sir Louis” could have conclusively proved that he had not sought this adventure. If he achieved any greatness in the conduct of the affair, it would be “greatness thrust upon him.” If his mother had not been on board at this moment sick in the cabin, without a suspicion that she was in the power of her villanous husband, he would have felt differently, and might have been in the mood for an adventure. The particular Fate that arranges adventures does not always adapt them to the pleasure and convenience of the hero; and it was a gross error in this instance to put Mrs. Belgrave on board of the vessel. It might have been fun to the knight without her; but it was positive misery to have her in the trap with him. “Then Captain Ringgold and Felix have not been drowned, had their throats cut, or their brains knocked out?” said Louis, when the disappearance of his friends had been explained. “That is cruel, my dear Louis, and you shock me. I shall not love you if you talk like that,” replied Frinks, with an intensely deprecatory expression on his face. “We are men of brains, but not of blood. Do not do me the injustice to suppose I would engage in any affair that called for the shedding of blood, or the shedding of brains, for that matter. We simply make your friends comfortable in another part of the vessel; for their presence on deck might lead you to commit some act that would create unpleasantness on board.” “Precisely so; and I cannot help seeing how kind and considerate you are with me,” added Louis, bestowing a sarcastic look upon his excellent friend. “May I venture to ask where this vessel is bound?” “She is bound to England, though I cannot now inform you just what port she will make, for that will depend upon circumstances.” “What circumstances?” “The principal one is the pleasure of the captain.” “In other words, your own pleasure.” “Bless you, no, my dear Louis! I am not the captain,” protested the wheelman, shaking his head. “May I ask who is the captain?” “Captain Wade Farrongate,” replied Frinks without hesitation. “Of course you are aware that he is the husband of the lady in the cabin. I assure you, Louis, I am telling you the strict truth; for it would be useless to lie about a matter you understand better than I do.” “Fobbington and Farrongate are horses of the same color, and both of them are myths,” said Louis with a palpable sneer. “Perhaps you can tell me who is the captain of this frisky schooner.” “I can; one John Scoble is the captain of her.” “I don’t know him.”