had passed that moment, he met Baldry's gloomy eyes, and again assured
the adventurer that the presence of so brave a man and redoubted fighter
could but do honor to the _Cygnet_.

His words were all that courtesy could desire: if tone and manner were
of the coldest, yet Baldry, not being sensitive, and having gained his
point, could afford to let that pass. He turned to the Admiral with a
short laugh.

"You see, sir, we are yoke-brothers--Sir Mortimer Ferne and I,--though
whether God or the devil hath joined us!... Well, the two of us may send
some Spanish souls to hell!"

With his yoke-brother, Arden, and Sedley he returned to the _Cygnet_,
and that evening at supper, having drunken much sack, began to loudly
vaunt the deeds of the drowned _Star_, magnifying her into a being
sentient and heroical, and darkly-wishing that the luck of the
expedition be not gone with her to the bottom of the sea.

"Luck!" exclaimed Ferne at last, haughtily. "I hate the word. Your
luck--my luck--the luck of this our enterprise! It is a craven word,
overmuch upon the lips of Christian gentlemen."

"I was not born a gentleman," said Baldry, playing with his knife. "You
know that, Sir Mortimer Ferne."

"I'll swear you've taken out no patent since," muttered Arden, whereat
his neighbor laughed aloud, and Baldry, pushing back his stool, glared
at each in turn.