But, what follows, needs another chapter.

CHAPTER III.

I found the place in my notebook, cleared my voice, and began.  “The ship was sailing gloriously under a press of canvas.  Her foretopgallant-sail swelled to its cotton-like hue out of the black shadow of its incurving.  High aloft, the swelling squares of her studding-sails gleamed in the misty sheen of the pale luminary, flinging her frosty light from point to point of the tapering masts, which rose, rose, rose into the morning air, as though with intent to pierce the glowing orb of day, poised in the heavens like one vast ball of liquid fire.  Through the wind-hushed spaces of the canvas, where the foretopmaststay-sail—­”

“I know that foretopmaststay-sail,” said the funny man, suddenly.  I withered him with a look, and turned over the page.

“Here,” I said, “is another tip-topper.  What do you think of this for a storm?—­’The liquid acclivities were rising taller, and more threatening.  With a scream of passion the tortured ship hurled itself at their deep-green crests.  Cascades of rain, and hail, and snow, were dashing down upon her unprotected bulwarks.  The inky sky was one vast thunder-clap, out of which the steely shaft of an electric flash pierced its dazzling path into the heart of the raving deep.  The scud—­’

“I know that scud,” said a hateful voice.  But, before I could annihilate its owner, the pale face of Mr. SPILKINGS, with his dead-eyes turned in, dashed breathlessly into the saloon.  “By all that’s holy,” he shouted, “the Captain’s gone mad, and the crew have thrown off all disguise.  We are manned by ourang-outangs!”

CHAPTER IV.

Never shall I forget the horrors of the scene that ensued.  We clewed up the mizzen royal, we lashed the foretop to make it spin upon its heels.  The second dog watch barked his shins to the bone, and a tail of men hauled upon the halliards to mast-head the yard.  Nothing availed.  We had to be wrecked and wrecked we were, and as I clasped ARAMINTA’s trustful head to my breast, the pale luminary sailing through the angry wrack glittered in phantasmal splendour on the scud which—­

    [Here the Ms. ends unaccountably.—­Ed. Punch.]

* * * * *

[Illustration:  An interested party.

St. Bernard’s Dog (confidentially to Mr. Chaplin).  “Never mind the old woman; let’s keep the muzzle on for A year, and have done with it!”]

* * * * *

Canine confidences.

Clever Dog, to the Minister of Agriculture, loquitur—­

Potterer, put the muzzle on!  Potterer, take it off again!
That is not the way, my friend, cruel rabies to restrain. 
Take my tip! 
As to self-styled “friends of dogs,” too preposterous by half,
Who object to all restraint, they deserve on seat or calf
One sharp nip.