s supposed
to be irresistible coyness. The waiter was already sweeping away the
bottle and glasses, which were full and which would be carefully
decanted, re-bottled and served up to the old lieutenant the following
evening.

"Oh, all right. But I can't stay long. I have to get aboard, you know."

"He can't go till you get there," argued his friend.

"Ah, but I've a special reason for wanting to be on board to-night."

"Well, here's luck to the voyage."

"Good luck," said the women, touching the edge of the glasses with their
lips and setting them down again.

"Feefty francs," said the waiter, glaring over a black moustache at the
fistful of money Mr. Spokesly drew from a trouser pocket.

The pianist crashed out some tremendous chords. The old lieutenant's
little friend whispered in his ear.

"What's that, dear? Oh! She wants to know if you'll stand the musician
something, seeing you haven't been here before. It's usual."

Mr. Spokesly, without changing his expression, put down a ten-franc note
extra.

"You give me a leetle tip?" said the waiter, watching the money going
back into his victim's pocket. But he had postponed his own private
piracy too long.

"I'll give you a bunt on the nose if you don't get away," muttered Mr.
Spokesly. And he added to his friend: "I must go. May not see you again,
eh?"

"Very likely not, very likely not. You see, I may be transferred to the
Red Sea Patrol."

"Well, so long. Good luck."

He breathed more freely when he got outside. Sixty francs for a quart of
carbonated bilge and a racket like nothing on earth.

He was mortified at seeing an Englishman posing as a fool like that, but
he was honest enough to admit to himself that he had been that
Englishman over and over again.

"Why do we do it?" he wondered as he was borne swiftly over the water by
the launch. And the married men, he reflected, were always the worst.

"Where's your ship?" growled the petty officer, sidling along the engine
house and taking one of Mr. Spokesly's cigarettes.

"_Kalkis_, little Greek boat just ahead," said Mr. Spokesly, slipping a
couple of shillings into a waiting palm. "And look here, can you wait a
second when I get aboard? My skipper wants to go ashore."

"Tell him to double up then."

Captain Rannie was standing on the grating at the head of the gangway,
charged with a well-rehearsed monologue on the extreme lack of
consideration experienced by some shipmasters. Mr. Spokesly r