“And the police haven’t been watching the ship and inquiring for me?” asked the skipper.

The mate shook his bewildered head.  “Why should they?” he inquired.

The skipper made no reply.  He sat goggle-eyed, staring straight before him, trying in vain to realize the hardness of the heart that had been responsible for such a scurvy trick.

“Besides, it ain’t the fust time you’ve been out all night,” remarked the mate, aggressively.

The skipper favored him with a glance the dignity of which was somewhat impaired by his complexion, and in a slow and stately fashion ascended to the deck.  Then he caught his breath sharply and paled beneath the coaldust as he saw Sergeant Pilbeam standing on the quay, opposite the ship.  By his side stood Miss Pilbeam, and both, with a far-away look in their eyes, were smiling vaguely but contentedly at the horizon.  The sergeant appeared to be the first to see the skipper.

“Ahoy, Darkie!” he cried.

Captain Bligh, who was creeping slowly aft, halted, and, clenching his fists, regarded him ferociously.

“Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant, holding up the jacket Bligh had left behind.  “Good-looking young man with a very fine moustache he is.”

[Illustration:  “Give this to the skipper, will you, my lad?” said the sergeant.]

“Was,” said his daughter, in a mournful voice.

“And a rather dark complexion,” continued the sergeant, grinning madly.  “I was going to take him—­for stealing my coal—­but I thought better of it.  Thought of a better way.  At least, my daughter did.  So long; Darkie.”

He kissed the top of a fat middle finger, and, turning away, walked off with Miss Pilbeam.  The skipper stood watching them with his head swimming until, arrived at the corner, they stopped and the sergeant came slowly back.

“I was nearly forgetting,” he said, slowly.  “Tell your skipper that if so be as he wants to apologize—­for stealing my coal—­I shall be at home at tea at five o’clock.”

He jerked his thumb in the direction of Miss Pilbeam and winked with slow deliberation.  “She’ll be there, too,” he added.  “Savvy?”

“Matrimonial openings”

Mr. Dowson sat by the kitchen fire smoking and turning a docile and well-trained ear to the heated words which fell from his wife’s lips.

“She’ll go and do the same as her sister Jenny done,” said Mrs. Dowson, with a side glance at her daughter Flora; “marry a man and then ’ave to work and slave herself to skin and bone to keep him.”

“I see Jenny yesterday,” said her husband, nodding.  “Getting quite fat, she is.”

“That’s right,” said Mrs. Dowson, violently, “that’s right!  The moment I say something you go and try and upset it.”

“Un’ealthy fat, p’r’aps,” said Mr. Dowson, hurriedly; “don’t get enough exercise, I s’pose.”