word was law, that there was no arguing about orders, which must have given a certain polish to their work.  Warington, of course, was no petty tyrant, lording it over young brothers, and swaggering in the undisputed character of his sway.  Like the rest he is a humourist, and when a gale was not blowing or the yacht was not contesting a race, he was as full of merriment and good spirits as the rest.  His opinion of Ste at this time was a high one.  He was always, says he, “most dependable.”  Receiving his orders, the future defender of Mafeking would stand as stiff and silent as a rock, showing scarce a sign that he understood them, but the orders were always carried out to the letter, and in a thoroughly finished and seamanlike manner.  Ste was always the tallest of his brothers, and at this time he was singularly lithe and wiry.  A tall slight boy with quite fair hair, a brown skin, and sharp brown eyes, he possessed extraordinary powers of endurance, and could always outlast the rest of the brothers.  He was quick to perceive the reason of an order, and always quick to carry it out; he was just as brisk in organising cruises on his own account, when, with the leave of Skipper Warington, he would take command of the yacht’s dinghy and go off on fishing expeditions with Baden and Frank.  It was a dinghy that moved quickly with a sail, but in all their cruises up creeks and round about the hulks of Portsmouth Harbour they never came to grief, and always returned with a good catch of bass and mullet.

Danger did come to the yacht itself, however, on more than one occasion, and but for the courage and skill of Warington, the world might never have heard of B.-P. and the other brothers.  Once, in the Koh-i-noor (a 10-tonner with about eighteen tons displacement), which was the second yacht designed by Warington, the boys were cruising about the south coast, when, towards evening, just off Torquay, a gale got up, and the sea began to get uncommon rough.  As the gale increased almost to a hurricane and the waves dashed a larger amount of spray over the gunwale of the gallant little yacht, Warington decided to change his course and run back to Weymouth.  The night was getting dark, and the storm increased.  To add to the anxieties of the skipper his crew of boys, though showing no funk, began to grow green about the gills, and presently Warington found himself in command of an entirely sea-sick crew.  He was unable to leave the helm, and for over thirty-one hours he stood there, giving his orders in a cheerful voice to the groaning youngsters who were more than once driven to the ship’s drenched and dripping side.  Fortunately Warington knew the coast well, for it was much too dark to see a chart, and so, despite the raging tempest, the 10-tonner fought her way through the waves while the sea broke continually over her side, drenching the shivering boys, who stuck to their posts, and every now and then shouted to each other with chattering teeth that it was “awful fun.”