"Then their game is up," said I.

Albert Edward's brow crinkled. "I don't quite get you."

"My dear old fool," said I, "it's blowing great guns now. With the
leave-packet doing the unbusted broncho act for two hours on end it
shouldn't be very difficult to separate the sheep from the goat, the
true-blue sailor from the pea-green lubber, should it? They may be
able to bluff each other, but not the silvery Channel in mid-winter."

Albert Edward slapped his knee and laughed aloud.

* * * * *

They all came back from England last night. I lost no time in
cornering Albert Edward.

"Well, everything worked just as I prophesied, didn't it?" said I.
"With the first buck the old boat gave Blenkinsop tottered to the
rail and--"

Albert Edward shook his head.

"No, he didn't. He ate a pound of morphia and lay in the Saloon
throughout sleeping like a little child."

"But MacTavish?" I stammered.

"Oh, MacTavish," said Albert Edward--"MacTavish took an emetic."