vouchsafed explanation. "But you'll
'ave to make them do till I dry yours out by the fire."

Clinging to the woodwork, staggering with the roll of the ship, and aided
by the cook, I managed to slip into a rough woollen undershirt. On the
instant my flesh was creeping and crawling from the harsh contact. He
noticed my involuntary twitching and grimacing, and smirked:

"I only 'ope yer don't ever 'ave to get used to such as that in this
life, 'cos you've got a bloomin' soft skin, that you 'ave, more like a
lydy's than any I know of. I was bloomin' well sure you was a gentleman
as soon as I set eyes on yer."

I had taken a dislike to him at first, and as he helped to dress me this
dislike increased. There was something repulsive about his touch. I
shrank from his hand; my flesh revolted. And between this and the smells
arising from various pots boiling and bubbling on the galley fire, I was
in haste to get out into the fresh air. Further, there was the need of
seeing the captain about what arrangements could be made for getting me
ashore.

A cheap cotton shirt, with frayed collar and a bosom discoloured with
what I took to be ancient blood-stains, was put on me amid a running and
apologetic fire of comment. A pair of workman's brogans encased my feet,
and for trousers I was furnished with a pair of pale blue, washed-out
overalls, one leg of which was fully ten inches shorter than the other.
The abbreviated leg looked as though the devil had there clutched for the
Cockney's soul and missed the shadow for the substance.

"And whom have I to thank for this kindness?" I asked, when I stood
completely arrayed, a tiny boy's cap on my head, and for coat a dirty,
striped cotton jacket which ended at the small of my back and the sleeves
of which reached just below my elbows.

The cook drew himself up in a smugly humble fashion, a deprecating smirk
on his face. Out of my experience with stewards on the Atlantic liners
at the end of the voyage, I could have sworn he was waiting for his tip.
From my fuller knowledge of the creature I now know that the posture was
unconscious. An hereditary servility, no doubt, was responsible.

"Mugridge, sir," he fawned, his effeminate features running into a greasy
smile. "Thomas Mugridge, sir, an' at yer service."

"All right, Thomas," I said. "I shall not forget you--when my clothes
are dry."

A soft light suffused his face and his eyes glistened, as though
somewhere in the