his
cheeks out at the sky as he tugged at the oars, making a hundred and
one grimaces--all the outcome of agony of mind, but none expressing it.
Behind lay the ship, a picture not without its lighter side. The
long-boat and the quarter-boat, lowered with a rush and seaborne by the
mercy of Providence, were floating by the side of the Northumberland.

From the ship men were casting themselves overboard like water-rats,
swimming in the water like ducks, scrambling on board the boats anyhow.

From the half-opened main-hatch the black smoke, mixed now with sparks,
rose steadily and swiftly and spitefully, as if driven through the
half-closed teeth of a dragon.

A mile away beyond the Northumberland stood the fog bank. It looked
solid, like a vast country that had suddenly and strangely built itself
on the sea--a country where no birds sang and no trees grew. A country
with white, precipitous cliffs, solid to look at as the cliffs of Dover.

"I'm spint!" suddenly gasped the oarsman, resting the oar handles under
the crook of his knees, and bending down as if he was preparing to butt
at the passengers in the stern-sheets. "Blow up or blow down, I'm
spint, don't ax me, I'm spint."

Mr Lestrange, white as a ghost, but recovered somewhat from his first
horror, gave the Spent One time to recover himself and turned to look
at the ship. She seemed a great distance off, and the boats, well away
from her, were making at a furious pace towards the dinghy. Dick was
still playing with the water, but Emmeline's eyes were entirely
occupied with Paddy Button. New things were always of vast interest to
her contemplative mind, and these evolutions of her old friend were
eminently new.

She had seen him swilling the decks, she had seen him dancing a jig,
she had seen him going round the main deck on all fours with Dick on
his back, but she had never seen him going on like this before.

She perceived now that he was exhausted, and in trouble about
something, and, putting her hand in the pocket of her dress, she
searched for something that she knew was there. She produced a
Tangerine orange, and leaning forward she touched the Spent One's head
with it.

Mr Button raised his head, stared vacantly for a second, saw the
proffered orange, and at the sight of it the thought of "the childer"
and their innocence, himself and the blasting powder, cleared his
dazzled wits, and he took to the sculls again.

"Daddy," said Dick, who had been loo