message was brought from the captain. They were about to perish. Would his
Excellency the Commander come up to the bridge and save them, please?

It was a painful predicament, and Reginald was justly horrified. Could he
venture out and display the weakness of the British Navy in the face of a
crew of unwashed Greek matelots? On the other hand, could he skulk in his
cabin and allow the Master to doubt his courage and resource? He rose and
lurched unsteadily on deck.

The Captain was distinctly excited. Destruction was imminent. He had
appealed to the Saints without avail. Would the British Commander come to
their assistance? What did his Excellency think of it?

Reginald thought it was perfectly horrible. He had never thought such a
ghastly scene possible. The ship appeared on the point of turning turtle
and he was soaked to the skin already. Then, realizing that he could not
remain on the bridge another minute without internal disaster, he made a
supreme effort.

"My dear skipper," he howled at the top of his voice, "you surely don't
call this a storm? The merest breeze, I assure you. I really can't be
disturbed for such a trifle. If it begins to blow at all during the night
let me know and I'll come up and take the matter in hand;" and without
waiting for a reply he scrambled down from the bridge and made a dash for
the seclusion of the state-room.

Next morning they were rolling in the swell off Marseilles, with the
prestige of the British Navy, if possible, higher than ever.

* * * * *