“Well, sir, this is better than wind-jamming.  I think she’s doing elevens easily, and, if the wind comes round a bit, she shall have the try-sails, and I warrant she does twelve.”

“You’ll go right for the Short Blues, as we arranged?”

“We shall pick them up in eighteen hours from now, sir, and I’ll be glad if we haven’t to work your patent sling, though I’d like to see it tried.”

When the night came, and the men were smoking in Ferrier’s room, the young man suddenly said, “Mr. Cassall, I hope you’ll live to see at least six of these ships knocking about.  In the meantime I’d sooner have your memorial than that awful, costly abortion of Byron’s.  I mean the one with a cat, or a puppy or something, sprawling at the man’s feet.”

Cassall slowly smiled.

“Not bad; not bad.  But wait till I’m done, my lad; wait till I’m done.  I’ve managed a beginning; I’ve designed a scheme for a ship, and now I’m bent on something bigger.  Wait.  I mean to move the conscience of your plutocrats, and I shall do it the hard, City style; see if I don’t.”

“Hah-h!  Meantime this, sir, is, as I may say, recherche, unique, fahscinating.”

“I must set my watch now,” laughed the surgeon, and he whistled for the male nurses.  He had drilled them to perfection in a week or two, and they had no easy time with him, for he was resolved to have naval precision and naval smartness on board the Cassall; and Tom was thankful that a man whose cheek showed chubby signs of containing a quid of tobacco, was not instantly suspended from the gaff.  That was what he said, at any rate.

The Robert Cassall picked up the fleet just when the boarding was at its height, and her arrival caused a wild scene.  Work and discipline were forgotten for a while:  men set off flares which were absurdly ineffective in daylight; they jumped on the thofts of boats, ran up the rigging, and performed all sorts of clumsy antics out of sheer goodwill, as the beautiful steamer worked slowly along, piling up a soft, snowy scuffle of foam at her forefoot.  The spare hands who had been brought out for the cruise yelled salutations to friends, and one of them casually remarked:  “If this had happened before the drink was done away with, there would have been a funny old booze in some o’ them ar smacks, just for excitement like.”  There were no patients from the first fleet excepting one man with that hideous poisoned hand which, like death, cometh soon or late to every North Sea fisher.  He was sent back for his kit; one of the Cassal’s hands was sent in his place, and the steamer rushed away after leaving a stock of tobacco with the Mission smack.