dering what he was driving at.

"A shipmaster," he proceeded, "is lord paramount, quite the cock of his
own walk, and nothing must crow where he is. He is responsible for the
safety and comfort, for the well-being, moral, spiritual, and physical,
of every creature aboard his ship; no matter the circumstances under
which that creature came aboard, whether by paying cabin money, by
shipwreck, or by signing articles. Miss Bellassys has come into my
hands, and it is my duty, as master of this ship, to see that she's
done right by."

The conflict of twenty emotions rendered me quite incapable to do
anything more than stare at him.

"Now, Mr. Barclay," he continued, crossing his bow legs, and wagging a
little stunted forefinger in a kindly, admonishing way, "don't be
affronted by this preface, and don't be affronted by what I'm going to
ask, for if all be plain sailing, I shall be able to do you and the
young lady a real A1, copper-fastened service."

"Pray ask any questions you wish, captain," said I.

"This is an elopement, you say?"

"It is."

"Where from?"

"Boulogne-sur-Mer."

"Bullong-sewer-mare," he repeated. "Was the young lady at school?"

"She was."

"What might be her age, now?"

"She will be eighteen next so-and-so," said I, giving him the month.

He suddenly jumped up, and I could not imagine what he meant to do,
till pulling open a drawer, he took out a large box of cigars which he
placed upon the table.

"Pray, light up, Mr. Barclay," said he, looking to see if the window of
his port-hole was open. "They are genuine Havannah cigars." He
lighted one himself and proceeded. "What necessity was there for this
elopement?"

"Miss Bellassys is an orphan," I answered, still so much astonished
that I found myself almost mechanically answering him as though I were
in a witness-box, and he was Mr. Justice Parsons in a wig instead of an
old, bow-legged, pimple-nosed, merchant skipper. "Her father was
Colonel Bellassys, who died some years ago in India. On her mother's
death she was taken charge of by her aunt, Lady Amelia Roscoe. Lady
Amelia's husband was a gentleman named Withycombe Roscoe, whose estate
in Kent adjoined my father's, Sir Herbert Barclay, the engineer."

"D'ye mean the gentleman who built the L---- docks?"

"Yes."

"Oh, indeed!" cried he, looking somewhat impressed. "And how _is_ your
father, Mr. Barclay?"

"He died about two years and a half ago," I replied. "But you ha