What the end would have been I don't know. It was you that solved the
problem, not them. You looked at the first man of them hard. Then you
got to your feet.

"'Michael,' says you quietly, 'I'm goin' to sea. England's at war, and
there's work to do. So let's make for a king's ship, and have done with
misery and poverty.'

"Then you waved a hand to the man in command of the recruitin' gang, and
presently stepped up to him and his friends.

"'Sir,' I said to you, 'I'm not going to be pressed into the navy.'

"'There's no pressin', Michael,' you answered. 'We'll be quota men.
We'll do it for cash--for forty pounds each, and no other. You let them
have you as you are. But if you don't want to come,' you added, 'it's
all the same to me.'

"Faith, I knew that was only talk. I knew you wanted me. Also I knew the
king's navy needed me, for men are hard to get. So, when they'd paid
us the cash--forty pounds apiece--I stepped in behind you, and here we
are--here we are! Forty pounds apiece--equal to three years' wages of
an ordinary recruit of the army. It ain't bad, but we're here for three
years, and no escape from it. Yes, here we are!"

Dyck laughed.

"Aye, here we're likely to remain, Michael. There's only this to be
said--we'll be fighting the French soon, and it's easy to die in the
midst of a great fight. If we don't die, Michael, something else will
turn up, maybe."

"That's true, sir! They'll make an officer of you, once they see you
fight. This is no place for you, among the common herd. It's the dregs
o' the world that comes to the ship's bottom in time of peace or war."

"Well, I'm the dregs of the world, Michael. I'm the supreme dregs."

Somehow the letter from Virginia had decided Dyck Calhoun's fate for
him. Here he was--at sea, a common sailor in the navy. He and Michael
Clones had eaten and drunk as sailors do, and they had realized that, as
they ate and drank on the River Thames, they would not eat and drink
on the watery fairway. They had seen the tank foul with age, from which
water was drawn for men who could not live without it, and the smell of
it had revolted Dyck's senses. They had seen the kegs of pickled meat,
and they had been told of the evil rations given to the sailors at sea.

The Ariadne had been a flag-ship in her day, the home of an admiral and
his staff. She carried seventy-four guns, was easily obedient to her
swift sail, and had a reputation for gallantry. From the first hour
on