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“Young man,” said the gentleman who had first seized him, ‘‘who and what are you, and from whence have you come?”

“I am Philip Marsham, late boatswain of the Rose of Devon frigate. I came to learn from what country this ship had sailed and to ask for help. I myself sailed from Bideford long since in the Rose of Devon, but, falling into the hands of certain sailors of fortune who killed our master and took our ship, I have served them for weary months as a forced man. Having at last succeeded in running away from them, I have come hither by land, as you can see, suffering much on the way, and I ask you now to have compassion on me, in God’s name, and take me home to England.”

“Truly,” said the gentleman, ‘‘those devilish flies have wrought their worst upon him. His face is swelled till it is as thick-lipped as a Guinea slave’s.” He spoke lightly and with little thought of Phil’s words, for his humour was uppermost in him. He was in every way the fine gentleman with an eye for the comical, accustomed to having all things done for him and as little likely to feel pity for this nearly naked youth as to think it wrong that the little cabin boy should stand till morning behind his chair, lest by chance, desiring one thing or another, he must compromise his dignity by fetching it for himself.

But now the other, Captain Winterton, a tall, grave man, with cold face and hard cold eyes, stepped forward, and speaking for the first time said: ‘‘Do you remember me?”

Phil looked him in the eye and felt his heart sink, but he was no coward. “I do,’’ he replied.

Captain Winterton smiled. He was the first of the