"True," replied Wild. ’ For the space of half a minute, Gerald continued to scowl in silent frustration. Living, he knew that he would never send that letter. Her two sticks were bare and brown, her snugged canvas drab, her brasses dull, her anchor mottled with rust. " "Are you man, or fiend?" exclaimed Trenchard, staring at the stranger, as he concluded his narration. " "Well said, Jack," cried Figg. To-morrow, we'll go to the Fleet and get spliced. ” “The man?” 228 “Yes.
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