said nothing, and had the grace to blush; but spying a loaf of bread rolling under the transom, he crawled after it, secured it, and handed it to the Admiral.

"Informal, but very welcome," was the Admiral's remark as he divided the loaf and gave Archy half. "As long as this keeps up, Mr. Baskerville, you may as well accept the hospitality of my cabin, such as it is. I hardly suppose any one has thought of slinging you a hammock, and you couldn't stay in it if you had it; but there is the floor, and here is a pillow."

"Thank you, sir," said Archy.

"Have you ever seen your grandfather, Lord Bellingham?"

"No, sir."

The Admiral gave a short laugh.

"I should like to see your meeting."

Something in the Admiral's kind face gave encouragement to Archy, and he replied, "I hope he will receive me kindly, but I ask no favors of him. As a prisoner of war, I am sure to be taken care of, since Commodore Jones has obtained for us sea-officers the rights of prisoners of war, such as the land officers have had all the time. Is my grandfather very—very—dreadful?"

"He is a man of sense and honor, but he is very eccentric. I have known him for forty years. Excuse me now, Mr. Baskerville, I am going on deck. I need not ask you to make yourself at home." The Admiral smiled at this—he thought Archy needed very slight invitation to do that.

All night the tempest raged. At midnight, when it was at its worst, the Admiral came below for a moment. There were no lights, but by striking his flint he saw a lithe, boyish figure on the floor, cunningly lashed to the transom, as was the pillow, and Archy was sleeping like a baby.

"The little beggar is no coward," thought the Admiral, a smile lighting up his face.

Next day and next night it was the same. The Admiral noticed many things in that mortal struggle of the great ship with all the powers of destruction, and among them were the different kinds and degrees of courage displayed by the officers and men. Not one showed fear, although each was conscious of the immediate and awful danger, but some bore the strain better than others. There was not one who stood it more calmly, more debonairly, than the little American midshipman.

At sunrise on the third day, when the storm passed off to the eastward, they found themselves near a rocky headland that jutted out into the sea. The sun shone brightly, but the sea was still angry, and as far as the eye could reach was wreckage. One glance on the rocks showed them the wreck of the Seahorse. Her masts and spars were gone, and the hulk rose and fell helplessly with the violence of the waves. Archy was leaning sadly over the rail when he saw an object floating nearer that he recognized, with a sickening dread, as that of a man's body. It was swept shoreward under the very lee of the Thunderer. As it shot past, Archy uttered a cry. The morning light had revealed the pale face of his best friend Langton. Another cry went up from the men on the Thunderer's deck as they watched the ghastly sight. But at that very moment they had all they could do to claw off the land and save the Thunderer from the fate of the Seahorse. It was some days before the wind permitted them to return to the scene of the wreck, and they found not a vestige of the gallant ship or her brave company.

CHAPTER II

The Comet coach, from London to York, left the Angel Inn, on the borders of Yorkshire, at three o'clock in the November afternoon, on the last stage of the journey.

It was bitterly cold, and the low-hanging clouds held snow. Inside the tavern parlor the passengers hugged the fire and looked dismally out of the small-paned windows on the court-yard at the coach, to which the horses were being put, while the coachman, taking his last nip from a pewter pot at the kitchen window, chaffed the bar-maid and playfully flecked his whip at the postilion busy with the horses near by.

Among the passengers lingering around the fire was Archy Baskerville. He still wore his uniform, which had grown excessively shabby; but he was not without money. He had engaged the box-seat, and had paid for it in a lordly manner, showing, meanwhile, with boyish vanity and imprudence, a handsome rouleau of gold. He had a very handsome new cloak of dark-blue camlet, elegantly lined, and with a fur collar; and his seedy knee-breeches were ornamented with a costly pair of buckles.

The singular contrast in his dress could not fail to excite remark. An individual known as a bagman began to chaff him, while the other passengers listened and smiled.

"Wot's the matter with your clothes, young man? Did you kill a French captain in that 'ere suit—as you won't change it?"

Archy disdained to reply to this, and, wrapping his handsome cloak around him, produced a pair of pistols—not the great horse-pistols of the day, but of the kind used by officers; then he tightened the belt of the sword he wore, according to the custom in those days—all with an air of nonchalance that would have suited a man of twice his age.

A pert young woman in a hat and feathers, and travelling alone, then began:

"La, me! Have we got to travel in company with them pistols? Sure, they'll go off, little boy, and then we'll all be weltering in our blood."

A flush of anger rose to Archy's cheek at this, but he wisely held his peace. His eye fell, however, upon a gentleman on the opposite side of the fireplace, who was wrapped in a cloak much larger and heavier than Archy's, and who, like him, was examining the flints of a pair of pistols—and the gentleman also wore a military sword. He was tall and thin, and had the carriage of a soldier. His face was sallow, and far from handsome, but his eyes were full of kindness and intelligence, and as they met Archy's a subtle sympathy was established between them. Archy guessed, shrewdly, that the military gentleman was an Indian officer.

The bagman soon returned to the charge.

"Where's the footman as has charge o' you?" he asked.

"I had not thought of engaging a footman," responded Archy, coolly; "but if you are looking for a place, perhaps I might take you. What sort of a character can you get from your last master?"

A roar of laughter, in which the officer joined to the extent of a smile, greeted this, and the young woman called out:

"Bless 'is 'art! I knew he must 'ave a good 'art under that 'andsome cloak!"

The blowing of a bugle by the guard at the door broke up the conversation. The discomfited bagman made first for the coach, and the young woman with the hat and feathers bolted after him. A sweet-faced, elderly Quakeress and a handsome young Oxford student followed. Archy came next, and the officer held back a moment to speak to him.

"I observe, sir," he said, politely, "you wear a blue naval uniform, but it is unlike that of our service—at least, any that I have seen, but I have been long absent from England."

"This is an American uniform, sir," responded Archy, politely. "I am a prisoner of war on my parole and entitled to wear it. I served with Commodore Jones on the Bon Homme Richard, and was captured through my own imprudence when we made the Texel on our return from the cruise in which we captured the Serapis."

At this a slight but marked change came over the officer, and after a moment he said, coldly:

"You will pardon me for saying there is very great imprudence, and even danger, in your wearing that uniform in England."

"Perhaps so," replied Archy, quickly adopting the same