ast--Mr. Job takes a stroll down the quay past the
sweet-standings, and cocks his eye over the edge, down upon the deck of
the old _Pride_ that was moored alongside and fitting out for a fresh
cruise. And there, in the shade of the quay wall, sat old Captain Jacka
with a hammer, tap-tapping at a square of tinplate.

"Hullo!" Mr. Job hailed. "Where's the crew?"

"Up riding the hobby-horses, I b'lieve," answered Jacka, as friendly as
you please.

"And in thirty-six hours you've engaged to have the _Pride_ ready for
sea!"

"She's about ready now," said Jacka, stopping to put a peppermint in his
mouth. He had bought a packet off one of the sweet-standings, and
spread it on the deck beside him. "Feast-day doesn't come round more
than once a year, and I haven't the heart to deny them, with the work so
well forward, too." The old fellow fairly beamed across his deck, the
raffle of which was something cruel. "There's a fat woman up there,
too. I'm told she's well worth seeing."

"You call that dirty mess 'being fit for sea'?" asked Mr. Job, nodding
down, but bottling up his anger after a fashion. "Look here, Captain
Tackabird, you're a servant of the company; and I'll trouble you to
stand up and behave respectful when the company's agent pays you a visit
of inspection."

"Cert'nly, Mr. Job." Jacka scrambled up to his feet as mild as milk.
"Beg your pardon, sir, I thought you'd just strolled down to pass the
time of day."

"And don't flash that plaguey thing in my eyes, as you're doing."
For Jacka was standing in the sunshine now, with the tinplate in his
hands blazing away like a looking-glass.

"Very well, sir. Perhaps you'll allow me to fetch a hat out of the
cabin; for my head feels the heat powerful, being so bald. They do say
it twinkles a bit, too, when the sun catches it the right way."

So down he went to the cabin, and up he came again to find Mr. Job with
his best coat-tails spread, seated on the carriage of the _Pride's_
stern-chaser.

"Oh, Lord!" he couldn't help groaning.

"What's the matter?"

"Nothing, Mr. Job, nothing." The fact was, Jacka had smeared a dollop
of honey on that very gun-carriage to keep the wasps off him while he
worked. The sweet-standings, you see, always drew a swarm of wasps on
feast-days, and the old man never could abide them since his accident
with the bee-skip.

Mr. Job sat there with his mouth screwed up, eyeing the whole length of
the lugger.

"I'd like t