left the office with it in
his pocket.

In the outer lobby he felt a touch on his arm, and, looking round, met
the gaze of a gentleman with peculiarly keen grey eyes. This gentleman
made some quiet remarks with reference to Mr Jones being "wanted," and
when Mr Jones, not relishing the tone or looks of this gentleman, made
a rush at the outer glass door of the office, an official stepped
promptly in front of it, put one hand on the handle, and held up the
other with the air of one who should say, "Excuse me, there is no
thoroughfare this way." Turning abruptly to the left, Mr Jones found
himself confronted by another grave gentleman of powerful frame and
resolute aspect, who, by a species of magic or sleight of hand known
only to the initiated, slipped a pair of steel bracelets on Mr Jones's
wrists, and finally, almost before he knew where he was, Mr Jones found
himself seated in a cab with the strong gentleman by his side, and the
keen grey-eyed gentleman in front of him.

Soon afterwards he found himself standing alone in the midst of an
apartment, the chief characteristics of which were, that the furniture
was scanty, the size inconveniently little, and the window unusually
high up, besides being heavily barred, and ridiculously small.

Here let us leave him to his meditations.

One fine forenoon--many weeks after the capture of Morley Jones--Dick
Moy, Jack Shales, and Jerry MacGowl were engaged in painting and
repairing buoys in the Trinity store on the pier at Ramsgate. The two
former were enjoying their month of service on shore, the latter was on
sick-leave, but convalescent. Jack was painting squares of alternate
black and white on a buoy of a conical shape. Dick was vigorously
scraping sea-weed and barnacles off a buoy of a round form. The store,
or big shed, was full of buoys of all shapes; some new and fresh, others
old and rugged; all of them would have appeared surprisingly gigantic to
any one accustomed to see buoys only in their native element. The
invalid sat on the shank of a mushroom anchor, and smoked his pipe while
he affected to superintend the work.

"Sure I pity the poor craturs as is always sick. The mouth o' man can
niver tell the blessedness of bein' well, as the pote says," observed
Jerry, with a sigh, as he shook the ashes out of his pipe and proceeded
to refill it. "Come now, Jack Shales," he added, after a short pause,
"ye don't call that square, do 'ee?"

"I'll paint yer no