The Captain glanced over the rail to the wild sea, which seemed to gloat over their trouble, and shrugged his shoulders signifi cantly. “ It is awkward,” admitted the other—and he smiled softly. As has been previously mentioned he was a privileged person. He was the second in command of the Persian Mission, and it was whispered in certain circles that he was second to none in that particular form of diplomacy which was his—namely, the management of Oriental potentates. His chief was below, in his stateroom, penning one of those perfectly-worded literary des

patches for which he was famed. It seemed likely that this particular production was destined to be picked up in a bottle by a sardine fisher of the Morbihan—the work of a vanished hand - but that in the estimation of the writer was no reason why it should not be worthy of his reputation. So he sat in the cabin of what seemed to be a doomed ship, and addressed his roun ied periods to Her Majesty’s Secretary for Foreign Affairs.
“ How are they getting on aft ? ” said the

Captain suddenly. “ Pretty well. The ladies have found it all out, though. They see through blandish ments. They know that it is touch and go.”

The Captain turned aside to give an order to one of the quartermasters, and, when that was executed, there was nothing more to be done. All that human brain could devise, human hands had executed. The hatches were battened and covered deep in soaked canvas. The bulkheads were screwed close - the decks were kept constantly under water. The question now was whether the fire could be smothered or not, and the an swer was with Fate.
