“Here is what I found in one of them, mother; do you think I had better put them back?” he replied, showing her the pistols and the ammunition. “Shall I leave them for Scoble to use when he wants to get nearer to the missing million? as probably he still regards it; for I am confident Frinks brought him no report of the finding of it.” “No; throw them overboard!” exclaimed she, as she sank back in the berth. “I will not throw them overboard; but I must leave you.” The cook had left the cabin; and he carried the revolvers to Captain Ringgold, giving him no explanation in regard to them. When he returned to the first cabin, Captain Scoble was just coming down the stairs. He looked better-natured than when the passenger had last seen him, possibly because he did not find himself in the presence of a rebellious subject. “How is your mother, Louis?” asked Captain Scoble, halting at the foot of the steps, and looking the young man full in the face, as though he had nothing to blush for. “She is better,” replied the passenger, gently enough; for he had resolved to be as firm as a rock, even while he was conciliatory. “She would have left her berth, but the vessel began to roll worse than ever, and she had to remain where she was.” “The Maud rolled worse while we were reefing, for we had to throw her up into the wind,” added the captain; and the listener thought he had never seen him in a pleasanter frame of mind; and he was sure he must have given himself a severe course of training before he came below. “I noticed that she rolled very badly at one time.” “My stupid mate ought to have reefed her before,” said Scoble. “He is not much of a sailor when called upon to act on his own responsibility, though he does very well under the direction of one who knows his business.” “I supposed Mr. Fobbington was a very skilful seaman,” replied Louis. “Who?” demanded the captain, looking as though he had never heard the name before. “I beg your pardon: I mean Mr. Frinks, who, in a fit of pleasantry, assumed the name of ‘Fobbington,’ just as, on a former occasion, you took the name of Farrongate,” answered the passenger with a chuckle. Scoble frowned so that his brow was covered with wrinkles at the allusion to the name under which he had married Mrs. Belgrave, and conducted all his operations as a jockey and pool manager. But he evidently realized that he could not make anything by assuming a stormy attitude with his present customer, and the wrinkles were suddenly banished from his brow. “Mr. Frinks is not much of a sailor,” repeated the captain, choking down the passion that began to boil up. “Not much of a sailor!” exclaimed Louis, who was playing a part as really as the commander of the Maud. “Why, he speaks French like a native.”