“Is anything the matter?” demanded the skipper of the Falcon as he rose to his feet, alarmed by these manifestations of feeling.”  Is Mary—­is she ill?”

“Worse than that,” said the other—­“worse’n that, my poor boy; she’s married a lobster!”

The effect of this communication upon Evans was tremendous; but it may be doubted whether he was more surprised than Miss Cooper, who, utterly unversed in military terms, strove in vain to realize the possibility of such a mesalliance, as she gazed wildly at the speaker and squeaked with astonishment.

“When was it?” asked Evans at last, in a dull voice.

“Thursday fortnight, at ha’ past eleven,” said the old man.  “He’s a sergeant in the line.  I would have written to you, but I thought it was best to come and break it to you gently.  Cheer up, my boy; there’s more than one Mary Jones in the world.”

With this undeniable fact, Captain Jones waved a farewell to the party and went off, leaving them to digest his news.  For some time they sat still, the mate and Miss Cooper exchanging whispers, until at length, the stillness becoming oppressive, they withdrew to their respective berths, leaving the skipper sitting at the table, gazing hard at a knot in the opposite locker.

For long after their departure he sat thus, amid a deep silence, broken only by an occasional giggle from the stateroom, or an idiotic sniggering from the direction of the mate’s bunk, until, recalled to mundane affairs by the lamp burning itself out, he went, in befitting gloom, to bed.

THE RIVAL BEAUTIES

“If you hadn’t asked me,” said the night watchman, “I should never have told you; but, seeing as you’ve put the question point blank, I will tell you my experience of it.  You’re the first person I’ve ever opened my lips to upon the subject, for it was so eggstraordinary that all our chaps swore as they’d keep it to theirselves for fear of being disbelieved and jeered at.

“It happened in ’84, on board the steamer George Washington, bound from Liverpool to New York.  The first eight days passed without anything unusual happening, but on the ninth I was standing aft with the first mate, hauling in the log, when we hears a yell from aloft, an’ a chap what we called Stuttering Sam come down as if he was possessed, and rushed up to the mate with his eyes nearly starting out of his ’ed.

“‘There’s the s-s-s-s-s-s-sis-sis-sip!’ ses he.

“‘The what?’ ses the mate.

“‘The s-s-sea-sea-sssssip!’

“‘Look here, my lad,’ ses the mate, taking out a pocket-hankerchief an’ wiping his face, ’you just tarn your ’ed away till you get your breath.  It’s like opening a bottle o’ soda water to stand talking to you.  Now, what is it?’

“‘It’s the ssssssis-sea-sea-sea-sarpint!’ ses Sam, with a bust.

“‘Rather a long un by your account of it,’ ses the mate, with a grin.