“I suppose,” said the blacksmith, “by the time you got back to your ship you had overstayed your leave of absence a good while.  Did your captain let you off when you told him this story of the new-fashioned Water-devil?”

The marine smiled.  “I never went back to the Apache,” he said.  “When I arrived at Madras I found that she had sailed from Calcutta.  It was, of course, useless for me to endeavor to follow her, and I therefore concluded to give up the marine service for a time and go into another line of business, about which it is too late to tell you now.”

“Mr. Cardly,” said Mr. Harberry to the school-master, “have you ever read that the British Government has a submarine cable from Madras to Rangoon?”

The marine took it upon himself to answer this question.  “The cable of which I spoke to you,” he said, “was taken up, as I told you, and I never heard that another one was laid.  But it is getting late, and I think I will go to bed; I have a long walk before me to-morrow.”  So saying he rose, put his pipe upon the mantel-piece, and bade the company good night.  As he did so, he fixed his eyes on the blacksmith’s daughter, but that young lady did not look at him; she was busily reading the weekly newspaper, which her father had left upon the table.

Mr. Harberry now rose, preparatory to going home; and as he buttoned up his coat, he looked from one to another of the little group, and remarked, “I have often heard that marines are a class of men who are considered as fit subjects to tell tough stories to, but it strikes me that the time has come when the tables are beginning to be turned.”