he bridge. There was a brief silence, and then he
shouted down--

"Dave! Dave Morgan!"

"Ahoy! What's wrong there?"

Another seaman came staggering aft.

"Run, one o' you an' fetch up th' old man. Mate 'e's dead drunk 'ere,
an' the ship pointin' any way this 'arf hour."

"I--I canna," said the engineer, raising himself erect from the waist
and collapsing again; but the other staggered on and disappeared down
the companion hatchway. Two or three minutes passed before he
re-emerged.

"It's no go," he shouted up. "Skipper says as we must 'ave Faith.
Called me an onbelievin' generation o' vipers, an' would I kindly leave
'im alone to wrastle."

"Faith?" fairly yelled the voice from the bridge. "Tell 'im the man's
lyin' 'ere outside o' three pints o' neat Irish--tell 'im she's been
chasin' 'er own tail for this two--three hours--tell 'im the sound o'
breakers is distinkly audibble on the lee bow--tell 'im--oh, for Gawd's
sake tell 'im anythink so's it'll fetch 'im up!"

Dave Morgan dived down the companion again, and after a long interval
returned with the skipper at his heels. The old man was bare-headed
now, and the faint breeze, blowing back his grey locks, exposed a high
intellectual forehead underset with a pair of eyes curiously vague and
at the same time introspective.

The old man clutched at the coaming that ran around the hatchway,
steadied himself, and gazed around upon the fog.

"'Eavenly Father!" he said aloud and reproachfully, "_this_ won't do!"

And with that he came tripping forward to the bridge with a walk like a
bird's. At the sight of Tilda and Arthur Miles, who in their plight had
made no effort to hide, he drew himself up suddenly.

"Stowaways?" he said. "I'll talk to you presently." He stepped over
the engineer. "Heh? What's the matter?" he called up as he put his
foot on the ladder.

"Mate's drunk an' 'ncapable, sir," answered the seaman from above.

"What o' that?" was the unexpected reply. "Let the poor body lie, an'
you hold her to her course."

"But she's chasin' 'er tail, sir. She's pointin' near as possible due
south at this moment, an' no tellin' 'ow long it's lasted--"

"Then bring her round to west--west an' a point south, an' hold her to
it. You've got no _Faith_, Samuel Lloyd,--an' me wrestlin' with the
Lord for you this three hours. See yonder!"--the skipper waved a hand
towards the bows, and his voice rose to a note of triumph.

Sure enough, during