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“What’s the bet?” inquired the mate, looking up from his task of shredding tobacco.

“Five quid,” replied the skipper.

“Well, we ought to do it,” said the mate slowly; “‘t wont be my fault if we don’t.”

“Mine neither,” said the skipper. “As a matter o’ fact, Joe, I reckon I’ve about made sure of it. All’s fair in love and war and racing, Joe.”

“Ay, ay,” said the mate, more slowly than before, as he revolved this addition to the proverb.

“I just nipped round and saw a chap I used to know named Dibbs,” said the skipper. “Keeps a boarding-house for sailors. Wonderful sharp little chap he is. Needles ain’t nothing to him. There’s heaps of needles, but only one Dibbs. He’s going to make old Berrow’s chaps as drunk as lords.”

“Does he know ’em?” inquired the mate.

“He knows where to find ’em,” said the other. “I told him they’d either be in the ‘Duke’s Head’ or the ‘Town o’ Berwick.’ But he’d find ’em wherever they was. Ah, even if they was in a coffee pallis, I b’leeve that man ‘ud find ’em.”

“They’re steady chaps,” objected the mate, but in a weak fashion, being somewhat staggered by this tribute to Mr. Dibbs’ remarkable powers.

“My lad,” said the skipper, “it’s Dibbs’ business to mix sailors’ liquors so’s they don’t know whether they’re standing on their heads or their heels. He’s the most wonderful mixer in Christendom; takes a reg’lar pride in it. Many a sailorman has got up a ship’s side, thinking it was stairs, and gone off half acrost the world instead of going to bed, through him.”

“We’ll have a easy job of it, then,” said the mate. “I b’leeve we could ha’ managed it without that, though. ‘Tain’t quite what you’d call sport, is it?”

“There’s nothing like making sure of a thing,” said the skipper placidly. “What time’s our chaps coming aboard?”

“Ten thirty, the latest,” replied the mate. “Old Sam’s with ’em, so they’ll be all right.”

“I’ll turn in for a couple of hours,” said the skipper, going towards his berth. “Lord! I’d give something to see old Berrow’s face as his chaps come up the side.”

“P’raps they won’t git as far as that,” remarked the mate.

“Oh, yes they will,” said the skipper. “Dibbs is going to see to that. I don’t want any chance of the race being scratched. Turn me out in a couple of hours.”

He closed the door behind him, and the mate, having stuffed his clay with the coarse tobacco, took some pink note-paper with scalloped edges from his drawer, and, placing the paper at his right side, and squaring his shoulders, began some private correspondence.

For some time he smoked and wrote in silence, until the increasing darkness warned him to finish his task. He signed the note, and, having put a few marks of a tender nature below his signature, sealed it ready for the post, and sat with half-closed eyes, finishing his pipe. Then his head nodded, and, placing his arms on the table, he too slept.

It seemed but a minute since he had closed his eyes when he was awakened by the entrance of the skipper, who came blundering into the darkness from his stateroom, vociferating loudly and nervously.

“Ay, ay!” said Joe, starting up.

“Where’s the lights?” said the skipper. “What’s the time? I dreamt I’d overslept myself. What’s the time?”

“Plenty o’ time,” said the mate vaguely, as he stifled a yawn.

“Ha’-past ten,” said the skipper, as he struck a match, “You’ve been asleep,” he added severely.

“I ain’t,” said the mate stoutly, as he followed the other on deck. “I’ve been thinking. I think better in the dark.”

“It’s about time our chaps was aboard,” said the skipper, as he looked round the deserted deck. “I hope they won’t be late.”

“Sam’s with ’em,” said the mate confidently, as he went on to the side; “there ain’t no festivities going on aboard the Good Intent, neither.”

“There will be,” said his worthy skipper, with a grin, as he looked across the intervening brig at the rival craft; “there will be.”