“You are ill, Will Ward¹,” was Dick Darvall’s first remark when there was sufficient daylight to distinguish faces.

 

“You’re another!” was the cabin-boy’s quick, facetious² retort, which caused Darvall to smile and had the effect of rousing the half-sleeping crew.

 

“But you are ill, my boy,” repeated the seaman³ earnestly.

 

“No, Dick, not exactly ill,” returned Will, with a faint smile, “but I’m queer.”

 

Each man had spent that stormy night on the particular thwart⁴ on which he had chanced to sit down when he first entered the boat, so that all were looking more or less weary, but seamen⁵ are used to uncomfortable and interrupted slumbers⁶. They soon roused themselves and began to look about and make a few comments on the weather. Some, recurring⁷ naturally to their beloved indulgence, pulled out their pipes and filled them.

 

“Have ’ee a light, Jim?” asked a rugged⁸ man, in a sleepy tone, of a comrade behind him.

 

“No, Jack⁹, I haven’t” answered Jim, in a less sleepy tone, slapping all his pockets and thrusting his hands into them.

 

“Have you, Dick?” asked the rugged man in some anxiety.

 

“No, I haven’t,” replied Darvall, in a very serious voice, as he also took to slapping his pockets; “no—nor baccy!”

 

It was curious to note at this point how every seaman in that boat became suddenly sympathetic and wide awake, and took to hasty, anxious examination of all his pockets—vest jacket, and trousers. The result was the discovery of a good many clay pipes, more or less blackened and shortened, with a few plugs of tobacco, but not a single match, either fusee or congreve. The men looked at each other with something

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