and
a baize-covered table with an awning rigged over them; and upon the
ship's Schoolmaster, who was busily engaged in arranging the
prize-books.

"Good afternoon, sir!" The Schoolmaster, affecting to be busy and
polite at the same time, picked out a book and held it up to view.
"_Smiles on Self Help_," he announced.

"You don't say so!" answered Mr. Harris, halting. "But--I mean--they
can't very well, can they?"

"_Eric, or Little by Little_, by the late Archdeacon Farrar.
My choice, sir: some light, you see, and others solid, but all _pure_
literature. . . . They value it, too, in after life. Ah, sir,
they've a lot of good in 'em! There's many worse characters than my
boys walking the world."

Mild Mr. Harris removed his glasses. "Are you talking like that from
force of habit?" he asked. "If so, I shall not be so much annoyed."

The Schoolmaster was fairly taken aback. He stared for a moment and
shifted his helm, so to speak, with a grin of intelligence and a
short laugh.

"Not quite so bad as that, sir," he remonstrated. "It's--it's--well,
you may call it the _atmosphere_. On Speech-day the ship fairly
reeks of it."

"And, like the pork, eh! it's just a little bit 'off'?" suggested the
visitor, returning his smile. "By the way, I want to ask you a
question or two about a boy. His name is Link--Something-or-other."

"Link Andrew?" The Schoolmaster gave him a quick look. "You don't
tell me he's in trouble again? Not been annoying you, sir, I hope?"

"On the contrary, I've taken a fancy to the lad; and, by the way
again, Link can't be his real name?"

"Short for Abraham Lincoln, as baptised," explained the Schoolmaster.
"At least, that's one theory. According to another it's short for
'Missing Link.' Not that the boy's bad-looking; but did you happen
to notice the length of his arms--like a gorilla's?"

"I could not avoid doing so."

Mr. Harris related the incident.

"It was exceedingly kind of you, sir, to pass over his conduct so
lightly. The fact is, if Link Andrew had been reported again he'd
have lost his hammock in the yacht. We all want him to go; some to
get rid of him for a spell, and others because we can't help liking
the boy. He hates us back, you bet, and has hated us from the moment
he set foot on deck, five years ago . . . Whitechapel-reared, I
believe. . . . Yet fond of the sea in his way. Once shipped on the
yacht he'll behave like an angel. But here on board he's