“I will do what I can,” said the old man, slowly, as his visitors seated themselves, “but I can only tell you what I see.  If I do not see all, or see clearly, it cannot be helped.”

Mr. Boxer winked at Mr. Thompson, and received an understanding pinch in return; Mrs. Thompson in a hot whisper told them to behave themselves.

The mystic preparations were soon complete.  A little cloud of smoke, through which the fierce red eyes of the astrologer peered keenly at Mr. Boxer, rose from the table.  Then he poured various liquids into a small china bowl and, holding up his hand to command silence, gazed steadfastly into it.  “I see pictures,” he announced, in a deep voice.  “The docks of a great city; London.  I see an ill-shaped man with a bent left leg standing on the deck of a ship.”

Mr. Thompson, his eyes wide open with surprise, jerked Mr. Boxer in the ribs, but Mr. Boxer, whose figure was a sore point with him, made no response.

“The ship leaves the docks,” continued Mr. Silver, still peering into the bowl.  “As she passes through the entrance her stern comes into view with the name painted on it.  The—­the—­the——­”

“Look agin, old chap,” growled Mr. Boxer, in an undertone.

“The North Star,” said the astrologer.  “The ill-shaped man is still standing on the fore-part of the ship; I do not know his name or who he is.  He takes the portrait of a beautiful young woman from his pocket and gazes at it earnestly.”

Mrs. Boxer, who had no illusions on the subject of her personal appearance, sat up as though she had been stung; Mr. Thompson, who was about to nudge Mr. Boxer in the ribs again, thought better of it and assumed an air of uncompromising virtue.

“The picture disappears,” said Mr. Silver.  “Ah!  I see; I see.  A ship in a gale at sea.  It is the North Star; it is sinking.  The ill-shaped man sheds tears and loses his head.  I cannot discover the name of this man.”

Mr. Boxer, who had been several times on the point of interrupting, cleared his throat and endeavoured to look unconcerned.

“The ship sinks,” continued the astrologer, in thrilling tones.  “Ah! what is this? a piece of wreck-age with a monkey clinging to it?  No, no-o.  The ill-shaped man again.  Dear me!”

[Illustration:  “Ah! what is this? a piece of wreckage with a monkey clinging to it?”]

His listeners sat spellbound.  Only the laboured and intense breathing of Mr. Boxer broke the silence.

“He is alone on the boundless sea,” pursued the seer; “night falls.  Day breaks, and a canoe propelled by a slender and pretty but dusky maiden approaches the castaway.  She assists him into the canoe and his head sinks on her lap, as with vigorous strokes of her paddle she propels the canoe toward a small island fringed with palm trees.”

“Here, look ’ere—­” began the overwrought Mr. Boxer.

“H’sh, h’sh!” ejaculated the keenly interested Mr. Thompson.  “W’y don’t you keep quiet?”