I didn’t go in neither; only stood and looked on; but it seems they was all badly scared and muddled, and didn’t know which end was uppermost.  One on ’em kep’ snivelling and wringing of his ’ands; he come on board all of a sop like a monthly nurse.  That Trent, he come first, with his ’and in a bloody rag.  I was near ’em as I am to you; and I could make out he was all to bits—­’eard his breath rattle in his blooming lungs as he come down the ladder.  Yes, they was a scared lot, small blame to ’em, I say!  The next after Trent, come him as was mate.”

“Goddedaal!” I exclaimed.

“And a good name for him too,” chuckled the man-o’-war’s man, who probably confounded the word with a familiar oath.  “A good name too; only it weren’t his.  He was a gen’lem’n born, sir, as had gone maskewerading.  One of our officers knowed him at ’ome, reckonises him, steps up, ’olds out his ’and right off, and says he:  ’’Ullo, Norrie, old chappie!’ he says.  The other was coming up, as bold as look at it; didn’t seem put out—­that’s where blood tells, sir!  Well, no sooner does he ’ear his born name given him, than he turns as white as the Day of Judgment, stares at Mr. Sebright like he was looking at a ghost, and then (I give you my word of honour) turned to, and doubled up in a dead faint.  ‘Take him down to my berth,’ says Mr. Sebright. ’’Tis poor old Norrie Carthew,’ he says.”

“And what—­what sort of a gentleman was this Mr. Carthew?” I gasped.

“The ward-room steward told me he was come of the best blood in England,” was my friend’s reply:  “Eton and ’Arrow bred;—­and might have been a bar’net!”

“No, but to look at?” I corrected him.

“The same as you or me,” was the uncompromising answer:  “not much to look at.  I didn’t know he was a gen’lem’n; but then, I never see him cleaned up.”

“How was that?” I cried.  “O yes, I remember:  he was sick all the way to ’Frisco, was he not?”

“Sick, or sorry, or something,” returned my informant.  “My belief, he didn’t hanker after showing up.  He kep’ close; the ward-room steward, what took his meals in, told me he ate nex’ to nothing; and he was fetched ashore at ’Frisco on the quiet.  Here was how it was.  It seems his brother had took and died, him as had the estate.  This one had gone in for his beer, by what I could make out; the old folks at ’ome had turned rusty; no one knew where he had gone to.  Here he was, slaving in a merchant brig, shipwrecked on Midway, and packing up his duds for a long voyage in a open boat.  He comes on board our ship, and by God, here he is a landed proprietor, and may be in Parliament to-morrow!  It’s no less than natural he should keep dark:  so would you and me in the same box.”

“I daresay,” said I.  “But you saw more of the others?”

“To be sure,” says he:  “no ’arm in them from what I see.  There was one ’Ardy there:  colonial born he was, and had been through a power of money.  There was no nonsense about ’Ardy; he had been up, and he had come down, and took it so.  His ’eart was in the right place; and he was well-informed, and knew French; and Latin, I believe, like a native!  I liked that ’Ardy; he was a good-looking boy, too.”