* * * * * * *

The church bells in Wapping and Rotherhithe were just striking the hour
of mid-day, though they were heard by few above the noisy din of workers
on wharves and ships, as a short stout captain, and a mate with red
whiskers and a pimply nose, stood up in a waterman's boat in the centre
of the river, and gazed at each other in blank astonishment.

"She's gone, clean gone!" murmured the bewildered captain.

"Clean as a whistle," said the mate. "The new hands must ha' run away
with her."

Then the bereaved captain raised his voice, and pronounced a pathetic
and beautiful eulogy upon the departed vessel, somewhat marred by an
appendix in which he consigned the new hands, their heirs, and
descendants, to everlasting perdition.

"Ahoy!" said the waterman, who was getting tired of the business,
addressing a grimy-looking seaman hanging meditatively over the side of
a schooner. "Where's the Mary Ann?"

"Went away at half-past one this morning," was the reply.

"'Cos here's the cap'n an' the mate," said the waterman, indicating the
forlorn couple with a bob of his head.

"My eyes!" said the man, "I s'pose the cook's in charge then. We was to
have gone too, but our old man hasn't turned up."