aid the old sailor; "why it makes all the
difference, sir. When I was a young 'un, my old mother used to lather
the yaller soap over my young head till it looked like a yeast tub in a
baker's cellar. Lor' a mussy! the way she used to shove the soap in my
eyes and ears and work her fingers round in 'em, was a startler. She'd
wash, and scrub, and rasp away, and then swab me dry with a rough
towel--and it was a rough 'un, mind yer--till I shone again. Why, I was
as white as a lily where I wasn't pink; and a young lady as come to stay
at the squire's, down in our parts, blessed if she didn't put me in a
picter she was painting, and call me a village beauty. It's the soap as
does it, and a rale love of cleanliness. Bah, look at 'em! They're
just about the colour o' gingerbread; while look at me!"

Bob looked at the old fellow searchingly, to see if he was joking, and
then finding that he was perfectly sincere, the middy burst into a
hearty roar of laughter.

For long years of exposure to sun and storm had burned and stained Dick
into a mahogany brown, warmed up with red of the richest crimson. In
fact, a Malay had rather the advantage of him in point of colour.

"Ah, you may laugh," he growled. "I dessay, sir, you thinks it's werry
funny; but if you was to go and well soap a young Malay he'd come
precious different, I can tell you."

"But somebody did try to wash a blackamoor white," said Bob. "Tom Hood
says so, in one of his books."

"Well, and did they get him white, sir?" asked Dick.

"No, I think not," said Bob. "I almost forget, but I think they gave
him such a bad cold that he died."

"That Tom Hood--was he any relation o' Admiral Hood, sir?"

"No, I think not, Dick."

"Then he wasn't much account being a landsman, I s'pose, and he didn't
understand what he was about. He didn't use plenty o' soap."

"Oh yes, he did, Dick; because I remember he says, a lady gave some:--

"Mrs Hope,
A bar of soap."

"Then they didn't lather it well," said Dick decisively. "And it shows
how ignorant they was when they let's the poor chap ketch cold arter it,
and die. Why, bless your 'art, Mr Roberts, sir, if my old mother had
had the job, he'd have had no cold. He'd have come out red hot, all of
a glow, like as I used, and as white as a lily, or she'd have had all
his skin off him."

"And so you really believe you could wash these Malay chaps white?"

"I do, sir. I'd holystone 'em till they was."

"I