years, and no escape from it. Yes, here we are!"

Dyck laughed.

"Aye, here we're likely to remain, Michael. There's only this to be
said--we'll be fighting the French soon, and it's easy to die in the
midst of a great fight. If we don't die, Michael, something else will
turn up, maybe."

"That's true, sir! They'll make an officer of you, once they see you
fight. This is no place for you, among the common herd. It's the dregs
o' the world that comes to the ship's bottom in time of peace or war."

"Well, I'm the dregs of the world, Michael. I'm the supreme dregs."

Somehow the letter from Virginia had decided Dyck Calhoun's fate for him.
Here he was--at sea, a common sailor in the navy. He and Michael Clones
had eaten and drunk as sailors do, and they had realized that, as they
ate and drank on the River Thames, they would not eat and drink on the
watery fairway. They had seen the tank foul with age, from which water
was drawn for men who could not live without it, and the smell of it had
revolted Dyck's senses. They had seen the kegs of pickled meat, and they
had been told of the evil rations given to the sailors at sea.

The Ariadne had been a flag-ship in her day, the home of an admiral and
his staff. She carried seventy-four guns, was easily obedient to her
swift sail, and had a reputation for gallantry. From the first hour on
board, Dyck Calhoun had fitted in; with a discerning eye he had
understood the seamen's needs and the weaknesses of the system.