whatever may be your duties on this vessel, let me bide! There’s scores of stowaways taken every day, and I’ll work as few could.”

“Do, do try and speak low,” I whispered; “or we shall both be found out I’m stowing away myself!”

“Whew, laddie! How long will ye have been in Liverpool?”

“Only to-day. How long have you been here?”

“A week, and a sore week too.”

“You’ve no friends here, have you?”

“Freens, did ye say? I’ve no freens nearer than Scotland.”

“You must have had a hard time of it,” I whispered.

“Ye may say so. I’ve slept four nights in the docks, and never managed to stow till to-night. There’s a watchman about.”

“I know,” said I.

“I shouldn’t have got in to-night, but the misconducted body’s asleep, though I’ll say it’s the first time I saw him sleeping these four days. Eh, sirs! there’s an awful indifference to responsibility, when a man does a thing like yon. But it’ll be whisky, I’m thinking; for I heard him at clishmaclavers with one of these randy, drucken old Eirishers.”

My blood boiled. “She was not drunk!” said I. “And she’s—she’s a great friend of mine.”

“Whisht! whisht, man! We’ll be heard. I ask your pardon, I’m sure.”

I made no reply. The Scotchman’s tone was unpleasantly dry. Besides it was very difficult to give vent to one’s just indignation in whispers, and I still felt giddy, though I was resting my back against some of the lumber, rather comfortably.

“You’ll no be Eirish, yourself?” the Scotchman asked in his own accent, which was as strong in its way as Biddy’s.

“I’m English,” I said.

“Just so. And edyucated, I dare say?”

“I suppose so.”

“Ye’ve not forgiven me that I wronged the old lady? Indeed, but I ask your pardon, and hers no less. It’s not for the best of us to sit in judgment on the erring, as my mother has often said to me, unless it comes in the plain path of duty. But maybe your own temper would be a bit soored if your head was as light and your heart as sick as mine with starvation and hope deferred ——”

“Are you hungry?” I interrupted.

“I’ll not be sorry when we get a meal.”

“What have you had to-day?” I asked.

“I’ve been in the dock all day,” he answered evasively, “but I’m no great eater at the best of times, and I chewed two bits of orange-peel, not to speak of a handful of corn where there was a big heap had been spilt by some wasteful body or another, that had small thoughts of it’s coming to use. Now hoo in this world’s a man to make honest profit on a commodity he entrusts ——”

“Sh! sh! You’re raising your voice again,” said I. “Where’s your hand? It’s only a cake, but it’ll be

better than nothing,” And I held out the cake Biddy had made me put in my pocket.

“I’ll no take it from ye. Keep it for your own needs; I’m harder than yourself, it’s likely,” he said, pushing my hand aside, and added almost peevishly, “but keep the smell of it from me.”

“I can spare it perfectly,” I whispered. “I’ve had plenty to eat quite lately.”

I shall never forget how he clutched it then. I could hear his teeth clash with the eagerness of his eating. It almost frightened me in the darkness.

“Eh! man, that was good!” he gasped. “Are ye sure indeed and in truth ye could spare it all? I didn’t think they made such bannocks out of Scotland. But we’ve much to learn in all matters, doubtless. Thank ye a thousand times.”

“The old Irishwoman gave it me!” I said with some malice. “She made me put it in my pocket, though she had given me a good meal before, for which she would take nothing.”

“It was leeberal of her,” said Alister Auchterlay. “Verra leeberal; but there are good Christians to be met with, amongst all sorts, there’s not a doot aboot it.”

I should probably have pursued my defence of Biddy against this grudging—not to say insulting—tribute to her charity, if I had not begun to feel too

tired to talk, and very much teased by the heaving of the vessel.

“I wish the ship would be quiet till we start,” I said. “We’re not at sea yet.”

In reply to this Alister at some length, and with as much emphasis as whispering permitted, explained to me that a ship could not, in the nature of things, keep still, except in certain circumstances, such as being in dry dock for repairs or lying at anchor in absolutely still water.

“Good gracious!” I interrupted. “Of course I know all that. You don’t suppose I expect it not to move?”

“I understood ye to say that ye wushed it,” he replied with dignity, if not offence.

“I don’t know what I wish!” I moaned.

My companion’s reply to this was to feel about for me and then to begin scrambling over me; then he said—“Move on, laddie, to your right, and ye’ll find space to lie on the flat of your back, close by the ship’s side. I’m feared you’re barely fit for the job ye’ve undertaken, but ye’ll be easier if ye lie down, and get some sleep.”

I moved as he told me, and the relief of lying flat was great—so great that I began to pull myself together again, and made ready in my mind to thank my unseen companion for the generosity with which he

had evidently given me the place he had picked for himself. But whilst I was thinking about it I fell fast asleep.

When I woke, for the first minute I thought I was at home, and I could not conceive what Martha could be doing, that there should be, as far as one could hear, chimney-sweeping, cinder-riddling, furniture-moving, clock-winding, and Spring-cleaning, of the most awful nature, all going on at once, and in a storm of yelling and scolding, which was no part of our domestic ways. But in another minute I knew where I was, and by the light coming through a little round porthole above me, I could see my companion.

He was still sleeping, so that I could satisfy my keen curiosity without rudeness. He had indeed given up the only bit of space to me, and was himself doubled up among lumber in a fashion that must have been very trying to the length of his limbs. For he was taller than I, though not, I thought, much older; two years or so, perhaps. The cut of his clothes (not their raggedness, though they were ragged as well as patched) confirmed me in my conviction that he was “not exactly a gentleman”; but I felt a little puzzled about him, for, broad as his accent was, he was even less exactly of the Tim Binder and Bob Furniss class.

He was not good-looking, and yet I hardly know any word that would so fittingly describe his face in the repose of sleep, and with that bit of light concentrated upon it, as the word “noble.” It was drawn and pinched with pain and the endurance of pain, and I never saw anything so thin, except his hands, which lay close to his sides—both clenched. But I do think he would have been handsome if his face had not been almost aggressively intelligent when awake, and if his eyebrows and eyelashes had had any colour. His hair was fair but not bright, and it was straight without being smooth, and tossed into locks that had no grace or curl. And why he made me think of a Bible picture—Jacob lying at the foot of the ladder to heaven, or something of that sort—I could not tell, and did not puzzle myself to wonder, for the ship was moving, and there was a great deal to be seen out of the window, tiny as it was.

It looked on to the dock, where men were running about in the old bewildering fashion. To-day it was not so bewildering to me, because I could see that the men were working with some purpose that affected our vessel, though the directions in which they ran, dragging ropes as thick as my leg, to the grinding of equally monstrous