than we’ll row.” 

 He crawled aft and took the tiller; the breeze took the sail, and the boat forged ahead. 

 “Is it daddy’s ship?” asked Dick, who was almost as excited as his friend. 

 “I dinno; we’ll see when we fetch her.” 

 “Shall we go on her, Mr Button?” asked Emmeline. 

 “Ay will we, honey.” 

 Emmeline bent down, and fetching her parcel from under the seat, held it in her lap. 

 As they drew nearer, the outlines of the ship became more apparent. She was a small brig, with stump topmasts, from the spars a few rags of canvas fluttered. It was apparent soon to the old sailor’s eye what was amiss with her. 

 “She’s derelick, bad cess to her!” he muttered; “derelick and done for—just me luck!” 

 “I can’t see any people on the ship,” cried Dick, who had crept forward to the bow. “Daddy’s not there.” 

 The old sailor let the boat off a point or two, so as to get a view of the brig more fully; when they were within twenty cable lengths or so he unstepped the mast and took to the sculls. 

 The little brig floated very low on the water, and presented a mournful enough appearance; her running rigging all slack, shreds of canvas flapping at the yards, and no boats hanging at her davits. It was easy enough to see that she was a timber ship, and that she had started a butt, flooded herself and been abandoned. 

 Paddy lay on his oars within a few strokes of her. She was floating as placidly as though she were in the harbour of San Francisco; the green water showed in her shadow, and in the green water waved the tropic weeds that were growing from her copper. Her paint was blistered and burnt absolutely as though a hot iron had been passed over it, and over her taffrail hung a large rope whose end was lost to sight in the water. 

 A few strokes brought them under the stern. The name of the ship was there in faded letters, also the port to which she belonged. “Shenandoah. Martha’s Vineyard.” 

 “There’s letters on her,” said 

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