At last he came upon a man and a woman, a remarkable pair under any
circumstances, but specially interesting to him, seeing that the man
gripped an ancient carpet bag on which was pasted a label with the
glaring superscription: "Captain John Stump, yacht _Aphrodite_,
Marsails." The address was half written, half printed, and the quaintly
phonetic spelling of the concluding word betrayed a rugged independence
of thought which was certainly borne out by Captain John Stump's
appearance. The written label might be wrong; not so that stamped by
Neptune on a weather-beaten face and a figure like a capstan. Little
more than five feet in height, he seemed to be quite five feet wide. If
it be true that a poet is born, not made, Captain Stump was a master
mariner from his cradle. Royson had never before seen such a man. Drawn
out to Royson's stature he would yet have remained the broader of the
two. The lady with him, evidently Mrs. Stump, was mated for him by
happy chance. Short mean usually marry tall women, and your sons of
Anak will select wives of fairy-like proportions. But Mrs. Stump was
even shorter than her husband, and so plump withal, that a tape measure
round her shoulders might have given her the prize for girth.

Captain Stump was examining the interior of each carriage suspiciously
when he set eyes on the P. & O. officers.

"Port yer helium, Becky," he growled, and the two turned to the right-
about. It happened that he entered Royson's compartment. There were not
many first-class passengers that night, so Royson promptly took
possession of his own corner, lit a pipe, and unobtrusively watched his
future commander. This was not difficult, as Stump stood near the open
door, and each word he uttered was audible.