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“Wait a bit,” said Ted, earnestly. “Wot time was you to call the old man?” he asked, turning to the cook.

“Toss up for it,” repeated that worthy, hurriedly.

“Six o’clock,” said Bob, speaking for him; “it’s that now, cookie. Better go an’ call ‘im at once.”

“I dassent go like this,” said the trembling cook.

“Well, you’ll ‘ave to,” said Bill. “If the old man misses the tide, you know wot you’ve got to expect.”

“Let’s follow ‘im down,” said Ted. “Come along, cookie, we’ll see you righted.”

The cook thanked him, and, followed by the others, led the way down to interview the skipper. The clock ticked on the mantlepiece, and heavy snoring proceeded both from the mate’s bunk and the state-room. On the door of the latter the cook knocked gently; then he turned the handle and peeped in.

The skipper, raising a heavy head, set in matted hair and disordered whiskers, glared at him fiercely.

“What d’ye want?” he roared.

“If you please, sir–” began the cook.

He opened the door as he spoke, and disclosed the lightly-clad crowd behind. The skipper’s eyes grew large and his jaw dropped, while inarticulate words came from his parched and astonished throat; and the mate, who was by this time awake, sat up in his bunk and cursed them roundly for their indelicacy.

“Get out,” roared the skipper, recovering his voice.

“We came to tell you,” interposed Bill, “as ‘ow—-“

“Get out,” roared the skipper again. “How dare you come to my state-room, and like this, too.”

“All our clothes ‘ave gone and so ‘as the sojer chap,” said Bill.

“Serve you damned well right for letting him go,” cried the skipper, angrily. “Hurry up, George, and get alongside,” he called to the mate, “we’ll catch him yet. Clear out, you–you–ballet girls.”

The indignant seamen withdrew slowly, and, reaching the foot of the companion, stood there in mutinous indecision. Then, as the cook placed his foot on the step, the skipper was heard calling to the mate again.

“George?” he said, in an odd voice.

“Well?” was the reply.

“I hope you’re not forgetting yourself and playing larks,” said the skipper, with severity.

“Larks?” repeated the mate, as the alarmed crew fled silently on deck and stood listening open-mouthed at the companion. “Of course I ain’t. You don’t mean to tell me–“

“All my clothes have gone, every stitch I’ve got,” replied the skipper, desperately, as the mate sprang out. “I shall have to borrow some of yours. If I catch that infernal–“

“You’re quite welcome,” said the mate, bitterly, “only somebody has borrowed ’em already. That’s what comes of sleeping too heavy.”

*****

The Merman sailed bashfully into harbour half an hour later, the uniforms of its crew evoking severe comment from the people on the quay. At the same time, Mr. Harry Bliss, walking along the road some ten miles distant, was trying to decide upon his future career, his present calling of “shipwrecked sailor” being somewhat too hazardous even for his bold spirit.