When the two steamers’ bridges were level, the liner’s captain touched his cap, and a crowd of well-dressed passengers below him listened wonderingly.  “Afternoon, Captain.  Got ’em all?”

“Afternoon, Captain.  Oh, we didn’t lose any.  But a few drowned their silly selves before we started to shepherd them.”

“What ship was it?  The French boat would be hardly due yet.”

“No, the old Grosser Carl.  She was astern of her time.  Much obliged to you for the grub, Captain.  We’d have been pretty hard pushed if we hadn’t met you.  I’m sending you a payment order.  Sorry for spoiling your passage.”

The liner captain looked at his watch.

“Can’t be helped.  It’s in a good cause, I suppose, though the mischief of it is we were trying to pull down the record by an hour or so.  The boat, there!  Are you going to be all night with that bit of stuff?”

The cases of food were transshipped with frantic haste, and the boat returned.  The greyhound leaped out into her stride again the moment she had hooked on, and shot ahead, dipping a smart blue ensign in salute.  The Flamingo dipped a dirty red ensign and followed, and, before dark fell, once more had the ocean to herself.

The voyage home was not one of oppressive gayety.  The first-class passengers, who were crammed into the narrow cabin found the quarters uncomfortable, and the little shipmaster’s manner repellent.  Urged by the precedent in such matters, they “made a purse” for him, and a presentation address.  But as they merely collected some thirty-one pounds in paper promises, which, so far, have never been paid, their gratitude may be said to have had its economical side.

To the riffraff in the hold, for whose accommodation a poor man’s fortune had been jettisoned, the thing “gratitude” was an unknown emotion.  They plotted mischief amongst themselves, stole when the opportunity came to them, were unspeakably foul in their habits, and, when they gave the matter any consideration at all, decided that this fierce little captain with the red torpedo beard had taken them on board merely to fulfil some selfish purpose of his own.  To the theorist who has sampled them only from a distance, these off-scourings of Middle Europe are downtrodden people with souls; to those who happen to know them personally, all their qualities seem to be conspicuously negative.

The Flamingo picked up the landmarks of the Southern Irish coast, and made her number to Lloyd’s station on Brow Head, stood across for the Tuskar, and so on up St. George’s Channel for Holyhead.  She flew a pilot jack there, and off Point Lynus picked up a pilot, who, after the custom of his class, stepped up over the side with a hard felt hat on his head, and a complete wardrobe, and a selection of daily papers in his pocket.

“Well, pilot, what’s the news?” said Kettle, as the man of narrow waters swung himself up on to the bridge, and his boat swirled away astern.