k cast
loose, and found ourselves at length, with our twenty rescued souls on
board, heading once more for Kingstairs! Little was said on that short
voyage home. Sail and oar carried us rapidly through the storm. The
waves that broke over us from behind were as nothing to those that had
broken over us from in front. And as if in recognition of the gallant
exploit of the tough old "Dreadnought," the very surf off Kingstairs
beach had moderated when we reached it.

As we sighted the jetty we could see lights moving and hear a distant
shout, which was answered by a ringing cheer from our men, in which Jack
and I and the eighteen Germans and the two women joined. What a cheer
it was! At the jetty-head we could see a large crowd waiting to receive
us, and as we passed a stentorian voice shouted, "Ahoy! Have you got
them two boys on board?"

"Ay, ay!" cried the coxswain; "safe and sound--the rascals!"

Rascals, indeed! As we clambered up the ladder, scarcely believing that
we touched _terra firma_ once more, and found our poor old grandfather
almost beside himself with joy and excitement at the top, we considered
we deserved the title.

"Thank God you're safe!" he cried, when at last he had us before a
blazing fire and a hot breakfast in his dining-room. "Thank God, you
rascals!"

We had done so long ago, and did it again and again, and thanked Him,
not only for ourselves, but for the brave old "Dreadnought" too, so true
to her name and the work she had done that night.

Before we went to bed Jack said, "Same to you, Tom." I knew what he
meant. I had wished him a "Merry Christmas" at five minutes past twelve
that morning, and this was his answer six hours after. What a lot may
happen in six hours!

CHAPTER THIRTY SIX.

HANNIBAL TROTTER THE HERO--A CHAPTER OF AUTOBIOGRAPHY.

We know that it always is, or should be, embarrassing to a hero to
recite the history of his own exploits. So if this simple narrative
strikes the reader as defective, he must excuse it for that reason. For
I am in this painful position, that as no one else will recount my
adventures for me, I have nothing left but to do it myself. It has
surprised me often that it should be so, for there have been times when
I have even pictured myself reading the twentieth edition of my own
memoirs, and the reviews of the Press on the same. I am not offended,
however, but I am sorry, for it would have been good reading.

Without appearing