"That don't stand to reason, nohow," said The Crew, with gravity, "'cos
there was a time wonst when they wasn't married, and if they was good
arter they was good afore. And, moreover, what was, is, and ever shall
be, Amen!"

"All right, Sylvanus, we won't quarrel over them, and to show I bear no
malice, I'll sing a song about the sex," whereupon he trolled out:
"Here's to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen." Wilkinson came running aft
when he heard the strain, and cried: "Good heavens! Coristine, whatever
has got into you, are you mad or intoxicated?"

"I'll bet you your boots and your bottom dollar that he ain't that,
Mister," interposed The Crew, "fer you couldn't scare up liquor enough
on this yere _Susan Thomas_ to turn the head of a canary."

"We are exchanging musical treats," said Coristine in defence. "Sylvanus
here favoured me with an old ballad, not in the Percy collection, and I
have been giving him one of the songs from the dramatists."

"But about women!" protested the dominie.

"There ain't no songs that ain't got somethin' about women in 'em that's
wuth a cent," indignantly replied The Crew, and Wilkinson sullenly
retired to the bow.

When the captain emerged from the hold he was hardly recognizable.
Instead of his common sleeved waist coat and overalls, he was attired in
a dark blue suit of broadcloth, the vest and frock coat of which were
resplendent with gilt buttons. These clothes, with a befitting peaked