partial stupor, and was finally carried on board and down into the
cabin, and put between warm blankets by her father and Dr Hopley.

Meanwhile, Glynn was hurried forward, and dragged down into the
forecastle by the whole crew, who seemed unable to contain themselves
for joy, and expressed their feelings in ways that would have been
deemed rather absurd on ordinary occasions.

"Change yer clo's, avic, at wance," cried Phil Briant, who was the most
officious and violent in his offers of assistance to Glynn. "Och! but
it's wet ye are, darlin'. Give me a howld."

This last request had reference to the right leg of Glynn's trousers,
which happened to be blue cloth of a rather thin quality, and which
therefore clung to his limbs with such tenacity that it was a matter of
the utmost difficulty to get them off.

"That's your sort, Phil--a long pull, and a strong pull, and a pull all
together," cried Dick Barnes, hurrying forward, with a bundle of
garments in his arms. "Here's dry clo's for him."

"Have a care, Phil," shouted Gurney, who stood behind Glynn and held him
by the shoulders; "it'll give way."

"Niver a taste," replied the reckless Irishman. But the result proved
that Gurney was right, for the words had scarce escaped his lips when
the garment parted at the knee, and Phil Briant went crashing back among
a heap of tin pannikins, pewter plates, blocks, and cordage. A burst of
laughter followed, of course, but the men's spirits were too much roused
to be satisfied with this, so they converted the laugh into a howl, and
prolonged it into a cheer; as if their comrade had successfully
performed a difficult and praiseworthy deed.

"Hold on, lads," cried Glynn. "I'm used up, I can't stand it."

"Here you are," shouted Nickel Sling, pushing the men violently aside,
and holding a steaming tumbler of hot brandy-and-water under Glynn's
nose. "Down with it; that's the stuff to get up the steam fit to bust
yer biler, I calc'late."

The men looked on for a moment in silence, while Glynn drank, as if they
expected some remarkable chemical change to take place in his
constitution.

"Och! ain't it swate?" inquired Phil Briant, who, having gathered
himself up, now stood rubbing his shoulder with the fragment of the
riven garment. "Av I wasn't a taytotaler, it's meself would like some
of that same."

In a few minutes our hero was divested of his wet garments, rubbed
perfectly dry by his kind messmates, and clad in