nd a half
nearer to the skipper. "I suppose poor Bert has to have his meals in
that stuffy little place at the other end of the ship, doesn't he?"

"The fo'c'sle?" said the skipper, struggling between love and
discipline. "Yes."

The girl sighed, and the mate, who was listening at the skylight
above, held his breath with anxiety. Miss Jewell sighed again and in
an absent-minded fashion increased the distance between herself and
companion by six inches.

"It's usual," faltered the skipper.

"Yes, of course," said the girl, coldly.

"But if Bert likes to feed here, he's welcome," said the skipper,
desperately, "and he can sleep aft, too. The mate can say what he
likes."

The mate rose and, walking forward, raised his clenched fists to
heaven and availed himself of the permission to the fullest extent of a
somewhat extensive vocabulary.

"Do you know what I think you are?" inquired Miss Jewell, bending
towards him with a radiant face. "No," said the other, trembling.
"What?"

The girl paused. "It wouldn't do to tell you," she said, in a low voice.
"It might make you vain."

"Do you know what I think you are?" inquired the skipper in his turn.

Miss Jewell eyed him composedly, albeit the corners of her mouth
trembled. "Yes," she said, unexpectedly.

Steps sounded above and came heavily down the companion-ladder. "Tide's
almost on the turn," said the mate, gruffly, from the door.

The skipper hesitated, but the mate stood aside for the girl to pass,
and he followed her up on deck and assisted her to the jetty. For hours
afterwards he debated with himself whether she really had allowed her
hand to stay in his a second or two longer than necessary, or whether
unconscious muscular action on his part was responsible for the
phenomenon.

He became despondent as they left London behind, but the necessity of
interfering between a goggle-eyed and obtuse mate and a pallid but no
less obstinate cook helped to relieve him.

"He says he is going to sleep aft," choked the mate, pointing to the
cook's bedding.

"Quite right," said the skipper. "I told him to. He's going to take his
meals here, too. Anything to say against it?"

The mate sat down on a locker and fought for breath. The cook, still
pale, felt his small, black mustache and eyed him with triumphant
malice. "I told 'im they was your orders," he remarked.

"And I told him I didn't believe him," said the mate. "Nobody would.
Whoever 'eard of a cook living