“The doctor—­awfully cut up at leaving his wife:  got him in my cabin.  Wants to have his cry to himself.”

“Fancy a fellow crying at going to sea!”

“It is not that, sir; it is leaving his wife.”

“Well, is he the only man on board that has got a wife?”

“Why, no, sir.  It is odd, now I think of it.  Perhaps he has only got that one.”

“Curious creatures, landsmen,” said the first lieutenant.  “However, you can stick a marine there.”

“And I say, show the youngster the berths, and let him choose, as the doctor’s aground.”

“Yes, sir.”

So Fitzoy planted his marine, and then went after Lord Tadcaster:  he had drawn up alongside his cousin, Captain Hamilton.  The captain, being an admirer of Lady Cicely, was mighty civil to his little lordship, and talked to him more than was his wont on the quarterdeck; for though he had a good flow of conversation, and dispensed with ceremony in his cabin, he was apt to be rather short on deck.  However, he told little Tadcaster he was fortunate; they had a good start, and, if the wind held, might hope to be clear of the Channel in twenty-four hours.  “You will see Eddystone lighthouse about four bells,” said he.

“Shall we go out of sight of land altogether?” inquired his lordship.

“Of course we shall, and the sooner the better.”  He then explained to the novice that the only danger to a good ship was from the land.

While Tadcaster was digesting this paradox, Captain Hamilton proceeded to descant on the beauties of blue water and its fine medicinal qualities, which, he said, were particularly suited to young gentlemen with bilious stomachs, but presently, catching sight of Lieutenant Fitzroy standing apart, but with the manner of a lieutenant not there by accident, he stopped, and said, civilly but smartly, “Well, sir?”

Fitzroy came forward directly, saluted, and said he had orders from the first lieutenant to show Lord Tadcaster the berths.  His lordship must be good enough to choose, because the doctor—­couldn’t.

“Why not?”

“Brought to, sir—­for the present—­by—­well, by grief.”

“Brought to by grief!  Who the deuce is grief?  No riddles on the quarter-deck, if you please, sir.”

“Oh no, sir.  I assure you he is awfully cut up; and he is having his cry out in my cabin.”

“Having his cry out! why, what for?”

“Leaving his wife, sir.”

“Oh, is that all?”

“Well, I don’t wonder,” cried little Tadcaster warmly.  “She is, oh, so beautiful!” and a sudden blush o’erspread his pasty cheeks.  “Why on earth didn’t we bring her along with us here?” said he, suddenly opening his eyes with astonishment at the childish omission.

“Why, indeed?” said the captain comically, and dived below, attended by the well-disciplined laughter of Lieutenant Fitzroy, who was too good an officer not to be amused at his captain’s jokes.  Having acquitted himself of that duty—­and it is a very difficult one sometimes—­he took Lord Tadcaster to the main-deck, and showed him two comfortable sleeping-berths that had been screened off for him and Dr. Staines; one of these was fitted with a standing bed-place, the other had a cot swung in it.  Fitzroy offered him the choice, but hinted that he himself preferred a cot.