“I should say she is,” replied Coristine; “there are splendid women in the world, but they’re all married.”

“That don’t stand to reason, nohow,” said The Crew, with gravity, “’cos there was a time wonst when they wasn’t married, and if they was good arter they was good afore.  And, moreover, what was, is, and ever shall be, Amen!”

“All right, Sylvanus, we won’t quarrel over them, and to show I bear no malice, I’ll sing a song about the sex,” whereupon he trolled out:  “Here’s to the Maiden of Bashful Fifteen.”  Wilkinson came running aft when he heard the strain, and cried:  “Good heavens!  Coristine, whatever has got into you, are you mad or intoxicated?”

“I’ll bet you your boots and your bottom dollar that he ain’t that, Mister,” interposed The Crew, “fer you couldn’t scare up liquor enough on this yere Susan Thomas to turn the head of a canary.”

“We are exchanging musical treats,” said Coristine in defence.  “Sylvanus here favoured me with an old ballad, not in the Percy collection, and I have been giving him one of the songs from the dramatists.”

“But about women!” protested the dominie.

“There ain’t no songs that ain’t got somethin’ about women in ’em that’s wuth a cent,” indignantly replied The Crew, and Wilkinson sullenly retired to the bow.

When the captain emerged from the hold he was hardly recognizable.  Instead of his common sleeved waist coat and overalls, he was attired in a dark blue suit of broadcloth, the vest and frock coat of which were resplendent with gilt buttons.  These clothes, with a befitting peaked cap and a pair of polished boots, had evidently come out of the large bundle he had brought from Belle Ewart, where the garments had probably done Sunday duty, for a smaller bundle, which he now threw upon the deck, contained his discarded working dress.  Wilkinson was confirmed, by the spectacle presented, in his dire suspicion that the captain’s niece would appear at Barrie, and, then and there, begin an acquaintance with him that might have the most disastrous consequences.  But hope springs eternal in the human breast, as the poet says, so the schoolmaster tackled the commander, congratulated him on his fine appearance, and began to pump him as to the whereabouts of Miss Carmichael.  The old gentleman, for such he looked now, was somewhat vain in an off-hand sort of way, and felt that he was quite the dominie’s equal.  He was cheerful, even jovial, in spite of the contrary assertions of The Crew, as he replied to Wilkinson’s interrogations.

“Ah, you sly young dog,” he said, “I see what you’re at now.  You’d like to hear that the pair of them are waiting for us at Barrie; but they’re not.  They’ve gone to stay with my brother-in-law, Carruthers, in the County of Grey, where I’ll go and see their pretty faces myself in a few days.”

Wilkinson swallowed the “sly young dog” for the sake of the consolation, and, hurriedly making his way aft, communicated the joyful news to Coristine.  That gentleman much amused The Crew by throwing an arm round the schoolmaster’s waist and waltzing his unwilling partner over the deck.  All went merry as a marriage bell till the waltzers struck a rope coil, when, owing to the dominie’s struggles, they went down together.  Recovering themselves, they sat on deck glaring at each other.