was not like towing the remarkable relic up the Thames. Seahorse His owners, it appeared, were extremely angry at his being nearly a fortnight overdue, and that he had wasted time and fuel upon what they declared was a worthless derelict. According to what he afterwards told me, he had a bad half-hour with the senior partner of his firm, and very nearly got his notice of dismissal. He pointed out to the smug, go-to-meeting old gentleman, who was a churchwarden down at Chislehurst, that the boilers of the Thrush were in such a state that he dare not steam at any pressure, whereupon the senior partner replied: — Thrush “That matters nothing whatever to us, Seal. The boat’s insured, and we should lose nothing.” “No; but myself and the crew may lose our lives,” observed the skipper. “If your berth does not suit you, Seal, there are many other men quite ready to sail in your place,” was the calm rejoinder. And after that Seal left the office as quickly as he could, in order to give vent outside to his private opinion of the firm and their line of ships. This he did very forcibly, in language that only a Mediterranean skipper is in the habit of using. Now that I was back again, enjoying the comfort of my own shabby little sitting-room after the small, stuffy cabin of the Thrush, one rather curious incident caused me to reflect. Thrush It occurred on the morning after the loss of the Seahorse. The squall had gone down. We had passed the Nore and were steaming full ahead into the mouth of the Thames. I had been seated on the bridge with Seal and Thorpe for a couple of hours or so when I had occasion to descend to my cabin. Seahorse On entering I found an intruder in the person of Harding, the seaman who had been told off as the keeper of the Mysterious Man. He did not notice my approach, for I had on a pair of tennis shoes with rubber soles, therefore I stood in the doorway for a few moments watching him. He had spread open that document with the seven signatures that had so puzzled me, and with
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