Of course, this was soon noised about the city. The next morning a vast multitude swarmed into the Great Square before the Palace to the number of one million eight hundred and fifty-six thousand and eleven—not counting the women and children. At break of day, this great army was all ready to march in good order straight into the country of the Thirsty People.

But, before they all get away. I must tell you one of the cunning tricks of our old friend Panurge. He had not forgotten that the wretched little King Anarchus, whom Pantagruel had given to him as a present, had been the chief cause of the invasion of the peaceful Kingdom of Utopia. If Anarchus had shown the spirit of a brave man among the stout and faithful Giants, who had fought to the death to keep his mean little body from harm, Panurge would never have dared touch him. But Anarchus had been all along such a coward that he wasn't worth anybody's pity. So, on the evening of Pantagruel's triumphant entrance into the city, Panurge, after some hard thinking, got up a new dress for the little King. There was nothing at all royal about the dress. It was very far from being that, as it consisted of a pretty canvas doublet, all braided and pranked out; a pair of wide sailor trousers; and stockings without shoes.

"For," as Panurge said, "shoes would only spoil his sight."

He then put on the head of Anarchus a little pink cap, trimmed with a great capon-feather,—maybe I am wrong, because I have been told that there were two of these feathers,—besides a fine belt of blue and green. This was the ridiculous figure which Panurge dragged before Pantagruel.

"Do you know this fellow?"

"Not I," said Pantagruel.

"Why, this is the King of the Thirsty People! I am going to make an honest man of him. He was a pitiful rogue when he wore the crown. Now that he wears this gay dress, he is an honest man. I have given him a trade. He is a crier of green sauce, at your service. Now, little King, begin! Call out, 'Green Sauce! Green Sauce! Who wants to buy Green Sauce?'"

The poor King, from pure shame, piped out too low.

"That is not half loud enough," cried Panurge, catching him by the ear, and saying, "Sing higher, little King; sing higher in ge, sol, re, ut."

Pantagruel made himself merry at all this. I dare say the little King was the drollest man he had ever seen.

And this was how King Anarchus got to be a Crier of Green Sauce.

Two days after this, Panurge married the little King with an old lantern-jawed hag. To have everything pass off gaily, and to make sure of good dancing, he hired a blind man to give the music. For their wedding-supper, he ordered fine sheep-heads, plenty of eels served with mustard, and tripe spiced with garlic. The drink was watered wine and fine cider.

Pantagruel gave the couple a little cottage in one of the side streets, and a stone-mortar in which to pound their sauce. Here they carried on their trade, and the little King might have been happier than when he lived in a palace and had Giants to guard him, but for his wife, who beat him in time as flat as a mummy.

Pantagruel, having ended his tour through all the cities of his new Kingdom of Dipsodie, finally reached the Palace where he had been born, and on leaving which, one sad day, to go on his long journey to school, he had seen for the last time his dear and honored father. All these thoughts made the tender-hearted Giant sad; but he had no time for weeping. There were many wrongs in his own Kingdom of Utopia to make right. There were many rights to make strong. There were a thousand other things to do for his faithful people, who had at once proclaimed him King when Gargantua had been taken to Fairy-land,—even when he had been leagues upon leagues away.

One day Gargantua came back from Fairy-land.

It was a day above all others long to be remembered by Pantagruel, when he first heard, on coming home from a visit to one of his cities, where he had gone to decide a knotty case between that city and a neighboring town, the sharp bark of a dog. "Why! I know that bark," he said. "That is the bark of little Kyne, my father's dog. My father must surely have come back!" So, joyfully, he followed Kyne, who went bounding and frisking back to the great door of the Palace. There he found his old father, with his arms stretched wide open to clasp his son. Everybody was glad to see that wonderful meeting of father and son high up in the air.

"My dear son!"

"My dear and honored father!"

That was all they could hear, as the old Giant and the young Giant, arm in arm, passed through the door, and went up the broad stairway into the great hall. We may be sure that Snapsauce and the two other Very Fat Cooks were soon doing their best to get together a good dinner, during which Pantagruel heard all about Fairy-land, its Queen, and her kind Fairies. When a fresh flagon of wine rested between them, Father Gargantua said:—

"I praise God, my beloved son, that he has given thee such wisdom and virtue. Had it not been for thee, I would still have been in Fairy-land, for thou hast been wise while I was away. I would like to speak to thee now on a subject which much troubled me there. Thou art now old enough to take a wife, and I desire to see thee marry. Hast thou ever thought of a wife?"

"To tell the truth, most dear father, I have never yet thought of one. But, in choosing a wife, I am always thy son, and thou shalt choose for me."

"I believe thee in that, my son. But thou shalt choose for thyself when the time comes for a wife. When thou findest her, bring her home; she shall find a father waiting for her."

Pantagruel stretched out one big hand across the table. It met another big hand, only that other was more knotty and wrinkled than his own. Then the two mighty hands clasped.

"But this is not all that I wanted to say, my boy. It is time thou shouldst travel. Thou needest rest. Hast thou not been King in my place?" The old Giant laughed as he said this. "Hast thou not filled my throne, thou young rogue, for this score of years and more? Thou art not so strong as thou wast; thou hast need of a holiday."

"Hast thou also thought, father, of a plan for all this whilst thou wert in Fairy-land?"

"Well, yes. I had nothing else to do there but think. I know thou dost love to travel and see strange things. Thou shalt start at once. Don't crawl on land. Spread out thy white sails, and try the seas. Take with thee thy friend Panurge,—he looks like a keen fellow,—my old friend Friar John, my old master Ponocrates, who would be better for a trip; also Master Epistemon, and such others as thou pleasest. Put thy open hand into my treasure-box, and draw out thy closed fist with what thou wantest of my gold. Thou wilt find at my arsenal, Thalasse, all that thou needest; besides pilots, sailors, and stout soldiers. At the first fair wind, set sail. When thou art away, my boy, I shall make ready for thy wife, and for a splendid feast when thou shalt bring her safe home."

A few days after this, Pantagruel said good-by to Gargantua, leaving the old Giant on his knees praying for his son. He took with him Ponocrates, Panurge, Epistemon, Gymnaste, Eusthenes, Rhizotome, and Carpalim going with him of course; fine old Friar John, who was fond of saying that he could not sleep o' nights unless he was in search of some adventure; besides a famous traveler named Xenomanes, who boasted that he knew every land and every sea that the earth, if it had a tongue, could name. When he reached the sea-coast once more, Pantagruel picked out the twelve largest vessels in Thalasse, and gathered together all the pilots, mates, boatswains, sailors, workmen, soldiers, artillery, ammunition, provisions, and clothes he needed for a long voyage.

"Island of Pictures!" exclaimed Pantagruel; "then we must have some of them!"

"What brings all you good people here?" asked Pantagruel of a cripple, who was getting along as fast as he could hobble.

"Our great Fair, mighty Giant. Our Fair is held here every year."

"Have you anything there worth the trouble of walking to see?"

"Oh, yes! Your Highness. Many wonderful things are brought here by the great merchants of Asia and Africa; yes, and from all parts of the world, too."

"We are in time, then, to see these wonderful things," said the Giant.

Once at the Fair, Pantagruel and his friends were delighted with the number and variety of the finest tapestry pictures ever brought together. There was nothing on the earth—whether men, country, cities, palaces, farm-houses, mountains, ravines, valleys, lakes, trees, flowers, birds, rivers, beasts, fishes—that was not to be found worked in tapestry by skilful hands at that most wonderful of Fairs. Everybody bought a picture,—Friar John, Epistemon, Eusthenes, Carpalim, Panurge,—everybody, even Gymnaste, who had never before in all his days seen tapestry. And it was here, while Pantagruel was standing, deep in thought, before a bit of tapestry Epistemon had bought, that Xenomanes came up and tried in every way to catch his eye. All those around were too busy in making good bargains for themselves with the merchants to help him; so, after half a dozen efforts, he shook his white head gravely, and walked away.

It was Gymnaste who bought the largest and finest tapestry of all, representing the "Life and Feats of Achilles," in seventy-eight pieces, eight yards long and six yards wide, all made of Phrygian silk, embossed with gold and silver.

"Is that fit for a rough fellow like thee, Gymnaste?" asked Panurge, with his nose turned up in scorn.

"Thou knowest better than that, Panurge! It is a present from our noble lord to his royal father, which I have bought on his order."

"Humph!" said Panurge, while his nose turned up still higher in a bright red end, and stayed that way until dinner-time, when it turned down a bit, but got redder than ever before the meal was over.

Pantagruel had been so taken up with these strange animals that it was not until he was on his way to the port that he remembered that Xenomanes had tried to catch his eye. At once turning to him, he said kindly:—

"Your pardon, great traveller; what did you wish to say to me?"

"Only this, my lord, that seeing so many tapestry pictures, I was reminded of that strange Land of Satin which I once visited. I know Your Highness to be a great lover of travels, and always glad to learn new things. It was for this reason I ventured to disturb you."

"Why!" said Pantagruel, at once interested, "were there as many wonderful things in your Land of Satin as there are in this Land of Pictures?"

"What I tell you, my lord, is strange but true. In the Satin Land, the trees and herbage never lose their leaves or flowers, and are all damask and flowered velvet. As for the beasts and birds, they all looked to me like what we saw in those pictures. I saw many beasts, birds on trees, of the same color, size, and shape of those in our country. There was one difference, however, between them. Those in Satin Land ate nothing, and never sang or bit like ours."

"And the people of that land, Xenomanes, what of them?"

"This I cannot tell Your Highness."

"Ho! and why?"

"Never a word could I ever get from those people. There I saw many philosophers, travellers, and students, with whom I would gladly have spent half an hour in learned converse. They all seemed to be full of business, running about hither and yon, and yet had little to do."

"And what do those busy, silent people live on?"

"Strange!" said Pantagruel. "I wish I had looked closer at those pictures. The next time you want to speak to me, good Xenomanes, shout! I may hear you then."

Five days after leaving the Land of Pictures, the flag-ship being in the lead, Pantagruel's keen eyes caught sight, away off to the windward, of a large merchant-ship making her way slowly towards them. There was great joy among all the men on all the ships. Those on the fleet were glad, because they hoped, through the sail in sight, to hear news of the sea; and those on the merchant-ship because her passengers expected to get news from the main-land. When the flag-ship met with the stranger, and when the two were side by side, Pantagruel, curious to see a merchantman, went with his friends on board the latter.

The skipper of the merchantman, cap in hand, told Pantagruel that he had come from Lanternland. As soon as this was known everybody tried to put in a question about the country,—how it had got its name, and what were the habits of the Lantern people. It was learned that, towards the end of each July, the Lanternists held their great Fair, which, if the Giant wished to see for himself how much could be made of lanterns, whether single or strung in rows, by twos; by threes; by fours, and so on; or piled in columns; or ranged in arches; or spanning streets; or hung on trees; or sparkling on country roads; or swinging along the whole coast, making it as bright as in sunshine,—why, all he would have to do was to go there, if not that year, then the next.

While all this pleasant little talk was going on between the Giant and the skipper, Panurge had already got into a wrangle with a French sheep-seller, named Dindeno, who happened to have a large cargo of sheep on board. This sheep-seller was a very bad-tongued fellow; and, seeing Panurge passing by, with his glasses tied to his cap, and looking at his stock, he called out sneeringly to his shepherds,—

"Just look at that long-nosed dandy, with his glasses tied to his cap!"

Panurge, whose ears were as keen as his nose was sharp, retorted,—

"What dost thou say, thou sheep-barber?

"Sheep-barber! Ha! I am no sheep-barber, I let thee know, thou long-nosed dandy."

"Thou art no sheep-barber, eh! Prithee, tell me, then, rude fellow, what are so many sheared sheep doing here? Who sheared them, if thou didst not?"

"Thou art a rogue; and I will kill thee as I would a ram!" shrieked the sheep-seller, while trying to draw his sword; but the blade stuck close to the scabbard, as often happens on sea, from the rust caused by salt-water. Panurge, who was not armed, and who, from his cradle, had been a coward, ran for safety towards Pantagruel, who was not looking at what was going on. But Friar John, always on the watch, with his strong arm caught hold of Dindeno. Then Pantagruel, turning round and seeing a man struggling with Friar John, knew for the first time that there was a quarrel. At this moment the skipper stepped up, and, with many bows and prayers that there should be no bad name given to his ship, begged his Giantship to order peace. This was done, and Panurge and Dindeno shook hands, apparently the best of friends.

A short time after, Panurge winked at Epistemon and Friar John, as much as to say, "I want to have a word with you." As soon as they came near, Panurge whispered, "Stand about here for a while, and you shall see rare sport."

Having no idea of what was coming, Friar John and Epistemon stepped to one side, and waited.

"Hello! my good friend and neighbor," cried the sheep-seller, "dost thou want to play tricks on poor people? How long since thou hast been a buyer of sheep?"

"Whatever I may have been," said Panurge, gently, "be so kind as to sell me one of thy sheep there. Now, how much wilt thou ask for one?"

"See here, friend and neighbor, these are noble creatures. These are long-wooled sheep. It was from the fathers of these very sheep that Jason took his famous Golden Fleece."

"I do not doubt thy word," said Panurge; "but fix thy price for one of those precious sheep. Here is thy money ready for thee."

"My friend and neighbor, now listen to me!"

"I am listening."

"I shall make a bargain with thee! We have a pair of scales on board. Get thee on one scale. I shall put my prize ram on the other. I am willing to bet thee a peck of Busch oysters that, in weight, value, and general worth, my ram shall outweigh thee!"

"That may be all so; but I beg thee, good Dindeno, without further word, to be so kind as to sell me one of thy sheep; I care not which one."

With that, he pulled out his purse, and showed it bursting with new gold-pieces, with the face of good King Gargantua stamped on each piece.

Dindeno's eyes flashed at the glitter of so much gold; but he had made up his mind to insult Panurge until he made him angry.

"My friend and neighbor," he said, "my sheep are meat only for kings and princes. They are too nice and dainty for such as thou."

"Be patient now, and please grant my request. Only set thy price for one, and I will pay thee like a king."

"Thou art a fine fellow, truly," sneered Dindeno; "but tell me first, hast thou ever seen such shoulders, such legs, such knuckles, such backs and breasts as thou canst see here? Such strong ribs, out of which the small people in Pigmy-land make cross-bows to shoot with cherry-stones those long-legged cranes in their country? Think of all this for a second!"

"Peace, good man, I pray thee!" Panurge was about to say more, when he was stopped all of a sudden by the skipper, who had just drawn near at the sound of loud voices, and had heard Dindeno's sharp tones. "Enough! Enough! Too much talk here!" he cried. "Dindeno, if thou wantest to sell, sell. If thou wilt not, have done with it."

"I am willing to sell, Captain, for thy sake; but for thy sake alone," said the sheep-seller. "But he must pay me three French livres for his pick and choice."

"That is a big price," said Panurge, gently. "In my own country, I can buy five, nay, six fine rams for that much money."

"But not such sheep as mine!" yelled Dindeno, who was getting very angry that he had not vexed Panurge.

Dindeno, in clutching angrily at the money, rudely pulled it out of the hands of the patient Panurge. Holding himself as straight as he could, with an innocent smile upon his face, Panurge—having at last got what he wanted—looked around to make his choice. He soon picked out the finest ram in all the flock. The moment he caught hold of his ram, and began to haul it along, the poor beast set up a pitiful bleating. As soon as the rest of the sheep heard their leader bleating, they, too, set to crying and bleating, while staring at him with all their eyes wide open. Meanwhile, Dindeno, full of rage, was whispering to his shepherds,—

"That long-nosed fellow knows how to choose! That ram he has taken was the very one I had put aside for my best friend, the Lord of Cancale!"

When Dindeno turned round and saw his precious sheep frisking and drowning themselves before his eyes, he was at his wits' end. He tore his hair, and called out to his shepherds, "Help me save my sheep! help me!" Then he ran forward, and tried to keep, by might and main, the sheep from jumping into the sea; but it was all in vain. One after the other frisked gaily forward, bleating sadly all the while, to the spot where they had seen Panurge throw their leader overboard. At last Dindeno, in his despair, caught hold of a big ram by the fleece, hoping to be able to keep him back, and, in that way, to save the rest. But the ram was stronger than Dindeno, and bore him away with him into the sea, where both were drowned.

All this time Panurge was standing near the galley of the ship, holding an oar in his hand. This was not, you may well believe, to keep the poor shepherds from drowning. No! no! Panurge was not so soft-hearted as that! He used his oar only to keep the sheep from swimming up to the ship, crying out all the time,—"Drown, foolish sheep, drown! It is sweeter to drown than to live and be butchered, you foolish sheep!"

Wicked Panurge! He never once thought of Dindeno and the innocent shepherds!

After the slaughter of Dindeno, his shepherds, and his sheep, Pantagruel returned to his ship, and continued on his way to that land where he was hoping soon to meet the lovely Princess, whose beauty had reached his ears from far India. As to the affair on board the merchant-ship, nobody could be found who was really to blame. Panurge put on his most innocent look, and declared to Pantagruel that he had only done what he had a perfect right to do,—thrown his own ram overboard.

With a spanking breeze, the fleet made great speed. On the third day a triangular island, having something of the shape of Sicily about it, was sighted. Pantagruel and his friends, on landing, were met by one who called himself the Mayor, who came puffing, and all red in the face from the haste he had made to get to the harbor, as soon as he heard that a strange craft was in port.

"What is the name of this queer, three-cornered land, and who are its queer-nosed people?" whispered Panurge, sharply twitching the Mayor by the sleeve, as he was making his twelfth bow to Pantagruel. Nothing ever pleased the Mayor more than to be called upon for an account of the island and its people. He had written a little history for the benefit of travellers, and knew every page of it by heart. In his own mind, he at once put Panurge down as a very gifted personage, although he was willing to grant that Pantagruel was the tallest and the noblest man who had ever stepped on the island. Bowing to Panurge, therefore, very politely, and having learned that it was Pantagruel's wish for him to go on, he gave them an account as he led them from one point of interest in the island to the other.

According to the Mayor, the island was known as the "Island of Alliances." It used to be called, in the old times, "Island of the Noseless People," from the fact that the noses of all the men and women and little children were flat, and shaped like the ace of clubs. The island was small, but it was full of people, and had been inhabited for many thousand years. As ages rolled by, it was found to be of no use to try and keep up the family names; for, as there was no difference in the faces,—since all, big and little, rich and poor, had the same kind of club-nose, dumped exactly in the middle of the face,—nobody could claim any particular name. In their trouble, through much thinking, they at last formed a plan by which they could tell one from another.

This was their plan:—

They made up their minds to forget altogether, as unworthy of them, such barbarous relationships as father, mother, sister, brother, uncle, aunt, etc., and to call each other by the name of whatever one most wanted. In this way, the people of the island became as one family. So loving did they grow under this new rule that each one seemed to have a certain right to his neighbor, and never spoke to him without putting "my" before his name. If a little girl, for instance, wanted butter for her bread, she would call her mother "my Butter;" if the mother wanted her thread, the call, "my Thread," would bring the little girl running to find it for her. A young man would bow to a young lady, and say, "A lovely day, my sweet Evening Walk," and she would smile, and reply, "Yes, my Fairest Nosegay." An old man would call to his son, "Hurry, my Staff," and the boy would answer, "At once, coming, my Purse;" a learned professor would call his class to recite by ringing his bell for "My Good Lessons," and each scholar would salute him respectfully, as he marched into his room, with "Good-morning, my Success." A hungry man would call the bar-maid, "Quick, my Oysters," and she would answer, "Yes, my Sixpence."

Good Pantagruel kept his eyes fixed upon the Mayor, and his ears open to all that he was saying; but, at this last boast of three hundred thousand men in one family, he slightly frowned, and came near losing his usual sweet temper. The wordy Mayor, frightened by the awful eyebrows about to meet together, began to feel a strange thirst; and, making a very low bow, proposed a cup of good-cheer at a neighboring inn.

After some twenty or thirty bumpers each, Pantagruel's party all went on board, and sailed at once, right before the wind, from the Island of Alliances, without stopping to see any more of its queer-nosed people.

Pantagruel stopped at two islands named Tohu and Bohu, which lay very close together. There had always seemed to be a somebody, or a something, very wonderful in the islands he had already passed; but there happened to be a more wonderful somebody in Tohu and Bohu than he had seen or heard of in any other place. When Pantagruel landed with his friends at the quay of the principal town, where the chief men came to see him, he called for dinner; but behold! there was no dinner to be had. Why? Why, there was nothing to cook the dinner in!

"How is that, my friend?" Pantagruel asked the chief man.

"Because," he answered, "Your Highness has not brought your frying-pan along with you."

"My frying-pan along with me! Why, what do you mean? What has my frying-pan to do with the dinner you are to serve me?"

"A great deal, Your Highness, since we have no pans of our own."

"Did you ever have any?"

"Any number, Your Highness, any number; but Widenostrils has just eaten our last one."

"Has just eaten your last one, you say? Pray who is this Widenostrils who has a fancy for gobbling frying-pans?"

"A wicked giant, almost as tall as Your Highness, who has swallowed all our windmills."

"But windmills are not frying-pans, friend?"

"No, Your Highness is quite right there; but I was just about to say that, when there were no more windmills to swallow, this wicked giant took to shovelling every skillet, kettle, frying-pan, dripping-pan, and brass and iron pot in the land down his big throat, and all for want of windmills, which were his daily food. That made him very sick. It almost killed him. We hoped it had killed him outright; but it didn't. But he is dying, now, sure enough."

"Dying of what?" asked Pantagruel; "of eating frying-pans and skillets?"

"I wish it was! Some people do say so; but others, who are fishermen, and who live on the coast, and know everything that happens, declare that our giant went, a month ago, to another island, where he has been going for years, to swallow windmills, and vex the poor people there, and that he took in, with his last batch of windmills, I don't know how many cocks and hens. Now that I remember, I did hear that his own doctor made the choking worse by making him eat a big lump of fresh butter too near a hot oven. All this is very strange, though—I can't quite make it out myself."

"Where is that great Widenostrils? I should like to see him."

"In yonder meadow. Your Highness will find him very sick."

When Panurge saw Widenostrils fall back dead,—but not until then,—he went to the body, and, scrambling on its stomach, with the aid of Gymnaste, listened carefully for a few moments. Then, jumping down, he said to Pantagruel:—

"My Lord, this Widenostrils; this fine swallower of windmills; this eater of pans, and glutton of pots, is really dead! But I can swear that there are some things much like crowing cocks and cackling hens rummaging inside of his big body. Once I heard something very much like a quick yelp followed by a sharp screech."

Pantagruel seemed not to hear Panurge, for he stood a long time looking down at the body of a giant, who, when living, must have been nearly as tall as himself. On turning away, he said:—

"I wonder where this wicked man, who loved windmills, and died from skillets, ever swallowed those fowls he talked about."

He did not leave the island until he had ordered the dead giant honorable burial in the meadow where he had died. But he did not wait for the funeral. If Widenostrils had been a good giant, he would have acted as chief mourner; but he had a fixed rule which he expressed by saying:—

"Giants should always be brotherly with Giants, but only with good Giants."

The next morning the fleet started from Tohu and Bohu, cheered by the people, who were all in the best humor, because Pantagruel had left among them a new stock of frying-pans and skillets, so shining that they could see their faces in them. The sky was bright; the wind was fair; the very sea seemed to laugh,—all the fleet was happy. But Pantagruel sat on deck, looking very sad.

Friar John was the first to notice how still Pantagruel was. On seeing his Prince so glum, the good Friar, who was always a comforting kind of man, was just about asking him the reason, when James Brayer, the pilot, after cocking one eye at the sea, and the other at the sky, and then turning both eyes up towards the flag drooping on the poop, as though it would never wave again, knew that a storm was coming on, and, therefore, bid the boatswain pipe all hands on deck, and even summon the passengers.

"In with your top-sails!" he shouted. "Take in your spritsail! lower your foresail! lash your guns fast!"—all of which was done as quick as hands could do it.

Of a sudden, as though a great hand from above had swept down to stir the waters and make them mad, the sea began to swell, and moan and roar, and rise up into mountains, and sink into valleys. An awful north-west wind had got caught in with a hurricane,—so James Brayer said,—and the two together whistled through the yards, and shrieked through the shrouds. The sky itself seemed to be splitting open, and dropping down thunder, lightning, rain, and hail. In broad daylight it grew all dark, and the water rose to mountains, and sank to the depths in perfect blackness, save for the great flashes of lightning that showed the white faces of men, and the whiter foam of the sea.

James Brayer soon had every one about him busy at the work of saving the flag-ship. Even Pantagruel was pressed into service. It was no time for ceremony; the danger was too great for that. James Brayer bawled through his trumpet:—

"My Lord, I must ask you to stand amidship. Your Highness is so heavy that, in a sea like this, whichever side of the ship you may be on is bound to keel over. The sea is mad,—I have never seen it so mad before!"

Pantagruel, in the midst of all this shouting of men, and raging of the waves, and shrieking of the winds, was kneeling perfectly quiet, but praying with all his good heart to the Almighty Deliverer to save them. Hearing James Brayer call, he at once rose from his knees, and said cheerfully:—

"Here I am, good pilot! But how am I to stand amidship without interfering with the handling of the ship?"