self-preservation, but a generous
instinct, that even in that perilous crisis was stirring within their
hearts.

Instinct! No. It was a thought, an impulse if you will; but something
higher than an instinct.

Shall I declare it? Undoubtedly, I shall. Noble emotions should not be
concealed; and the one which at that moment throbbed within the bosoms
of the castaways, was truly noble.

There were but three of them who felt it. The fourth could not: he
could not swim!

Surely the reader needs no further explanation?

CHAPTER SEVEN.

A COMPULSORY PARTING.

One of the four castaways could not swim. Which one? You will expect
to hear that it was one of the three midshipmen; and will be
conjecturing whether it was Harry Blount, Terence O'Connor, or Colin
Macpherson.

My English boy-readers would scarce believe me, were I to say that it
was Harry who was wanting in this useful accomplishment. Equally
incredulous would be my Irish and Scotch constituency, were I to deny
the possession of it to the representatives of their respective
countries, Terence and Colin.

Far be it from me to offend the natural _amour propre_ of my young
readers; and in the present case I have no fact to record that would
imply any national superiority or disadvantage. The castaway who could
not swim was that peculiar hybrid, or _tribrid_, already described; who,
for any characteristic he carried about him, might have been born either
upon the banks of the Clyde, the Thames, or the Shannon!

It was "Old Bill" who was deficient in natatory prowess--Old Bill, the
sailor.

It may be wondered that one who has spent nearly the whole of his life
on the sea should be wanting in an accomplishment, apparently, and
really, so essential to such a calling. Cases of the kind, however, are
by no means uncommon; and in a ship's crew there will often be found a
large number of men, sometimes the very best sailors, who cannot swim a
stroke.

Those who have neglected to cultivate this useful art, when boys, rarely
acquire it after they grow up to be men; or, if they do, it is only in
an indifferent manner. On the sea, though it may appear a paradox,
there are far fewer opportunities for practising the art of swimming
than upon its shores. Aboard a ship, on her course, the chances of
"bathing" are but few and far between; and, while in port, the sailor
has usually something else to do than spend his idle hours in disporting
himself upon th