whistle, who ruled them, and despised us "poor white trash;" and if he
did not think it was a good thing to have fatalists like them as sailors
--they would be cool in time of danger.

Colonel Ryder's indignation was curbed, however, by the bookmaker,
who, having no views, but seeing an opportunity for fun, brought up
reinforcements of chaff and slang, easily construable into profanity,
and impregnated with terse humour. Many of the ladies had spoken of the
bookmaker as one of the best-mannered men on board. So he was to all
appearance. None dressed with better taste, nor carried himself with
such an air. There was even a deferential tone in his strong language, a
hesitating quaintness, which made it irresistible. He was at the service
of any person on board needing championship. His talents were varied.
He could suggest harmonies in colour to the ladies at one moment, and at
the next, in the seclusion of the bar counter, arrange deadly harmonies
in liquor. He was an authority on acting; he knew how to edit a
newspaper; he picked out the really nice points in the sermons delivered
by the missionaries in the saloon; he had some marvellous theories about
navigation; and his trick with a salad was superb. He now convulsed the
idlers in the smoking-room with laughter, and soon deftly drew off the
discussion to the speed of the vessel, arranging a sweep-stake
immediately, upon the possibilities of the run. He instantly proposed to
sell the numbers by auction. He was the auctioneer. With his eye-glass
at his eye, and Bohemian pleasantry falling from his lips, he ran the
prices up. He was selling Clovelly's number, and had advanced it beyond
the novelist's own bidding, when suddenly the screw stopped, the engines
ceased working, and the 'Fulvia' slowed down.

The numbers remained unsold. Word came to us that an accident had
happened to the machinery, and that we should be hove-to for a day,