ng son,

BILLY.

Harcourt, grown suddenly rather pale, picked up his sister's letter and
read with puzzled brows:

DEAR HARRY,--When I opened your last letter I found the enclosed. It had
evidently been put in by mistake, because the envelope was in your
handwriting. I am sending it back....

Harcourt pursed up his lips into a whistling shape and refolded the
enclosure. It was in Mordaunt's handwriting. But how did it get into
the envelope he himself had addressed to his sister?

At that moment Mordaunt came across the mess holding out a letter.

"Harcourt," he said, "my father has just sent me this letter. Isn't it
your handwriting?"

Harcourt took the sheet of paper and glanced at it. "Yes," he said,
"it's one I wrote to my sister for her birthday. And here's one that she
has just sent back to me. Is it yours by any chance?"

He carelessly extended the folded missive, and summoning all his
self-possession, looked his friend in the eyes and smiled wanly. "I've
only just read my sister's letter," he went on. "She seemed rather
puzzled..."

Mordaunt took the proffered letter and nodded. "Yes," he said, "it's
mine." He, too, paled a little. "I think I know what's happened. Do
you remember that scrap just as we were finishing our letters the other
night? Bosh pulled the table-cloth down and capsized everything. Our
letters got mixed up, and we must have addressed each other's envelopes."

He stood turning the letter to his father over and over in his fingers.

"Well," said Harcourt reassuringly, "it doesn't matter much, old thing,
does it? I'm just going to put this in another envelope and send it off
to my sister, with a note to explain. There's no harm done! I don't
suppose your letter was a matter of vast importance either, was it,
Billy?" He spoke lightly, in a tone of amused indifference, and turned
to the locker where he kept his writing materials.

The other walked over to the stove, slowly tearing his letter into pieces.

"No," he said. "Oh, no ... none at all."

CHAPTER VI

WET BOBS

A flurry of sleet came out of the east where a broad band of light was
slowly widening into day.

The tarpaulin cover to the after hatchway was drawn aside as if by a
cautious hand, and the rather sleepy countenance of the Young Doctor
peered out into the dawning. An expression of profound distaste spread
over it, and its owner emerged to the quarterdeck. There he stood
shiverin