“Nine and a half, your Grace,” said the officer with a chuckle, for he was an old sailor, and hated steamers.

“That’s very fair,” remarked the owner, skating off with his bare feet over the wet deck.  Then he went back to his cabin to dress.

Presently Mr. Barker’s neat person emerged from the cuddy.  He looked about to see if any one were out yet, but only a party of red-capped tars were visible, swabbing the forward deck with their pendulum-like brooms, and working their way aft in a regular, serried rank.  The phalanx moved with an even stroke, and each bare foot advanced just so many inches at every third sweep of the broom, while the yellow-haired Norse ’prentice played the hose in front of them.  Mr. Barker perceived that they would overtake him before long, and he determined on flight, not forward or aft, but aloft; and he leisurely lifted himself into the main-shrouds, and climbing half-way, hooked his feet through the ratlines.  In this position he took out a cigar, lighted it with a vesuvian, and, regardless of the increased motion imparted to him at his greater elevation, he began to smoke.  The atmosphere below must have been very oppressive indeed to induce Mr. Barker to come up before breakfast—­in fact, before eight o’clock—­for the sake of smoking a solitary cigar up there by the catharpings.  Mr. Barker wanted to think, for an idea had struck him during the night.

In ten minutes the parade of deck-swabbers had passed, and Claudius also appeared on deck, looking haggard and pale.  He did not see Barker, for he turned, seaman-like, to the weatherside, and the try-sail hid his friend from his sight.  Presently he too thought he would go aloft, for he felt cramped and weary, and fancied a climb would stretch his limbs.  He went right up to the crosstrees before he espied Barker, a few feet below him on the other side.  He stopped a moment in astonishment, for this sort of diversion was the last thing he had given the American credit for.  Besides, as Barker was to leeward, the rigging where he was perched stood almost perpendicular, and his position must have been a very uncomfortable one.  Claudius was not given to jocularity as a rule, but he could not resist such a chance for astonishing a man who imagined himself to be enjoying an airy solitude between sky and water.  So he gently swung himself into the lee rigging and, leaning far down, cautiously lifted Mr. Barker’s cap from his head by the woollen button in the middle.  Mr. Barker knocked the ash from his cigar with his free hand, and returned it to his mouth; he then conveyed the same hand to the top of his head, to assure himself that the cap was gone.  He knew perfectly well that in his present position he could not look up to see who had played him the trick.

“I don’t know who you are,” he sang out, “but I may as well tell you my life is insured.  If I catch cold, the company will make it hot for you—­and no error.”