rough surely—Wouldn't have been out in our
little vessel, The Laughing Polly, for two
guineas? Only wished he could make that with
that 'ere little lot of fish, as had cost him and
his mates some risk and trouble to get on
board. He and his missus would be blessed
glad if they got sixteen shillings for the lot.
It was blowing pretty stiff just now, and that
was all about it; and there was a vessel, one
of Green's big Indiamen out there, lying off
Brightown Head, that would be on shore soon,
as sure as eggs were eggs, if the wind didn't
change. Couldn't make no way, they couldn't,
and seemed, poor souls, drawing on land,
nearer and nearer every hour, poor souls."
Here the ancient mariner, who smelt of gin,
moved by a not unmanly grief, wiped his blind
eye with the scale-spangled sleeve of his tan-
coloured smock, and withdrew, shouting, no
doubt to conceal his feelings, his well-known
war cry of, "Fresh herrings—fresh and fine O
—Her-r-r-r-r-ings!"

I sat down and pondered. Should I call for
help; followed by a brave crew of tan-coloured
fishermen, and collecting all the spare jib-
booms, main-tops, and spare oars we could
find, should we rush "To the lifeboat! To
the lifebo-o-o-o-o-o-oat!" and pull away for
the wreck? I would, however, first finish my
last piece of toast, then ring for my boots, bind
myself up in a mackintosh, tie a red comforter
round my neck, toss off a bottle of brandy,
make my will, pay my bill, order dinner (but
perhaps. I might not return?), then, with some
spare sculls on my shoulders, make for the
wreck. Of course there would be a nabob on
board, or, better still, a nabobess, young, fair,
and beautiful, with four millions of gold stowed
away under hatches in his, or her, brass-nailed
trunk.

Yes, the nabob must be saved, let what will
happen. Beaumanoir, to the rescue. My father
had Norman blood in his veins, or he said he
had, therefore I suppose I have some too. It
stirs within me now. Away through the scud
and thunder, the lightning and the hail, and
the spray froth scattering like snow along the
shore. Now, then, my lads, take the tarpauling
off the lifeboat and in with her, for
there's a big sea on, and we must be off. Lift
her keel over the shingle. There's a valuable
life to be saved yonder. Three cheers for the
British Constitution and the good old Church
of England! Pardon my tears. They are tears
of excitement. Now, there she floats; unship
your oars; you Number Three, take the
bow oar; Number Two avast hauling; belay
there every one of you. Pull away, lads.
Hearts of oak are our midships, sons of guns
are our men. Cheerly, boys, to the rescue.
Where's the brandy? Now, then, with a will
—I've made mine. All right, come put your
backs into it. Mind that big wave—bravely
done. Now we near her. How the poor
fellows scream! Yep, there is the nabob—
there he is, yellow as a lizard, waving a yellow
handkerehief from the main chains. I'll flourish
my hat. We are here—to the rescue. The
nabob bows. Now, then, men, take care of the
floating spars—in between them, and——.

One bound and I am in the main chains,
shaking hands with the paralysed nabob. He
screams with delight and embraces me. He
points to a black chest at his feet inscribed in
large white letters, like a tombstone, "Four
millions and a half!" I can hardly hear what
he says, but I think it is: "Gallant preserver,
half of this worthless wealth is yours, if you
will save me." All right. Three cheers for
the British Constitution, and three more for
the Church of Ireland. You lubbers there on
the round top, you white livered skulkers, come
down and help to save the vessel. Who is that
pale fellow whetting his knife on the binnacle?
O, that's the ship's cook gone mad from
fright! Tie his arms behind him, and one of
you throw him into the long boat. You fellow
out there on the spanker boom, come down and
bear a hand, or I'll fire a broadside at you.
Take care boys; give the wreck a good wide
berth. She's lifting off the rocks, the next
time she strikes it'll be all over. The women
first; you scoundrel, move a step to get into
the boat, and I'll cut you down. Don't be
alarmed, sir; you are quite safe: but the chest!
Lower that chest gently, boatswain; if you
drop it edgeways it will stave in the boat.
Gently there; so, so. Now it's in; back water,
my lads. Three cheers for the Army and Navy.
Now, with a will. No talking, men. I want
to hear what this gentleman says. You wish
to give me the four millions and a half, because
you have another four millions in the vessel
that got into Southampton last Tuesday?
Generous man! The name of your
life-preserver? My name is——"

The nabob does not wait to hear my reply.
With a very peculiar smile, he throws up the
lid of the treasure chest. Horror! The chest is
brimming with rolls of brass sovereigns! Brummagem,
every man jack of them—the sovereigns,
not inappropriately entitled duffer sovereigns,
that are coined for barter with the sable inhabitants
of the Guinea coast, who give in exchange
ivory, palm oil, cockatoos, gold dust, and
diamonds. I scream violently. All at once the
chest explodes. The nabob passes downward
in a gust of fire, and I'm thrown into the sea
under the wreck. A shout of demoniacal
laughter comes from the parting vessel, and I
hear a shrill cry of——

"Here's your shaving water, if you please,
sir, and quite hot!"

It has been a dream—a moment's reverie.
Green's enormous Indiaman has still to be
rescued, and I have got to shave myself.

To shave is the work of a moment. I put
on my hat and hurry to the beach. It has
ceased to rain, the wind has gone down, the haze
is lifting; the blue sky, already large enough
to clothe a moderate sized Dutchman, is spreading
out aloft. (I must be nautical. I can't
somehow help it.)

I search the grey wall of sea everywhere for
the nabob, or the Indiaman. No signs. I beat
along the cloudy tawny surface of the troubled