for his inspection. A hole in the frying-pan the cook modestly
attributed to elbow-grease.

The river narrowed, and the brig, picking her way daintily through the
traffic, sought her old berth at Buller's Wharf. It was occupied by a
deaf sailing-barge, which, moved at last by self-interest, not
unconnected with its paint, took up a less desirable position and
consoled itself with adjectives.

The men on the wharf had gone for the day, and the crew of the
_Elizabeth Barstow_, after making fast, went below to prepare
themselves for an evening ashore. Standing before the largest saucepan-
lid in the galley, the cook was putting the finishing touches to his
toilet.

A light, quick step on the wharf attracted the attention of the skipper
as he leaned against the side smoking. It stopped just behind him, and
turning round he found himself gazing into the soft brown eyes of the
prettiest girl he had ever seen.

"Is Mr. Jewell on board, please?" she asked, with a smile.

"Jewell?" repeated the skipper. "Jewell? Don't know the name."

"He was on board," said the girl, somewhat taken aback. "This is the
_Elizabeth Barstow_, isn't it?"

"What's his Christian name?" inquired the skipper, thoughtfully.

"Albert," replied the girl. "Bert," she added, as the other shook his