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with no place at all safe and only the unhelpful sea for escape, amid the soprano cries of the powder-monkeys, the smell of charr'd wood, the Muzzle's iron breath,— how had these daily devotions, he now wondered, ultimately ever been of use, how, in the snug Shambles of the Seahorse?
    To the children, he remarks aloud, "Of course, Prayer was what got us through."
    "I should have pray'd," murmurs Cousin Ethelmer, to Tenebras's mild astonishment. Since appearing in the Doorway during a difficult bit of double-Back-stitch Filling two Days ago, return'd from College in the Jerseys, he has been otherwise all Boldness.
    "Not seiz'd a Match? Not gone running up and down the Decks screaming and lighting Guns as you went? Cousin." The Twins consult each the other's Phiz, pretending to be stricken.
    Ethelmer smiles and amiably pollicates the Revd, and less certainly Mr. LeSpark, his own Uncle, as if to say, "We are surrounded by the Pious, and their well-known wish never to hear of anything that sets the Blood a-racing.”
    Brae looks away, but keeps him in the corner of her eye, as if to reply, "Boy, Blood may 'race' as quietly as it must...."
    Mr. LeSpark made his Fortune years before the War, selling weapons to French and British, Settlers and Indians alike,— Knives, Tomahawks, Rifles, Hand-Cannons in the old Dutch Style, Grenades, small Bombs. "Trouble yourself not," he lik'd to assure his Customers, "over Diameter." If there are Account-books in which Casualties are the Units of Exchange, then, so it seems to Ethelmer, his Uncle is deeply in Arrears. Ethelmer has heard tales of past crimes, but can hardly assault his Host with accusations. Ev'ryone "knows,"— that is, considering Uncle Wade as some collection of family stories, ev'ryone remembers. Some Adventures have converg'd into a Saga that is difficult to reconcile with the living Uncle, who sends him bank-drafts on Whims inscrutable that catch the Nephew ever by surprise, frequents the horse-races in Maryland, actually once fed apples to the great Selim, and these days doesn't mind if Ethelmer comes along to visit the Stables. At the late Autumn Meet, gaily dress'd young women, fancier than he thought possible, had wav'd and smil'd, indeed come over bold as city Cats to engage Ethelmer in conversation. Tho' young, he was shrewd enough to smoak that what they were after was his Plainness, including an idea of his Innocence, which they fail'd to note was long, even enjoyably, departed.
    "He wants whah'?"
    Mason nodding with a sour Smile.
    "Out of our Expenses? shall it leave us enough for Candles and Soahp, do You guess?"
    "No one's sure, Captain Smith having not himself appear'd before the Council,— rather, his Brother came, and read them the Captain's Letter."
    "An hundred pounds,— apiece...?"
    "An hundred Guineas."
    "Eeh...that suggests they expect someone to come back with a counter-offer...? As it isn't huz, who would thah' be?"
    "It comes down to the Royal Soc. or the Royal N." As Mason has heard it, the Council mill'd all about, like Domestick Fowl in Perplexity, repeating, "Proportional Share!" in tones of Outrage, "— Pro-portional? Sha-a-are?"
    "Leaving this, this Post-Captain the right to Lay it Out, as he calls it, at his Pleasure."
    "Some Captain!— step away from a Privateer, by G-d." Aggriev'd voices echoing in the great stairwell, Silver ringing upon Silver,— sugar-Loaves and assorted Biscuits, French Brandy in Coffee,— Stick-Flourishes, motes of wig-powder jigging by the thousands in the candle-light.
    "Immediately raising a particular Suspicion,— unworthy of this Captain, goes without saying, and yet,—
    - not to be easily distinguish'd from petty Extortion."
    "Quite the sort of behavior Lord Anson's forever on about eradicat-ing...."
    "...and other remarks in the same Line," reports Mason. "They were just able at last to appoint a Committee of Two to wait upon Lord Anson himself, who took the time to inform them that in the Royal Navy, a