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Ship of War's Captain is expected to pay for his own victualing."
    "Really," said Mr. Mead, "I didn't know that, m'Lord,— are you quite— I didn't mean that,— of course you're sure,— but rather,—
    "His Thought being," endeavored Mr. White, "that all this time, we'd rather imagin'd that the Navy—
    "Alas, Gentlemen, one of Many Sacrifices necessary to that strange Servitude we style 'Command,' " replied the First Lord. "Howbeit, 'twill depend largely on how much your Captain plans to drink, and how many livestock he may feel comfortable living among,— hardly do to be slipping in goat shit whilst trying to get ten or twelve Guns off in proper Sequence, sort of thing. At the same time, we cannot have our Frigate Captains adopting the ways of Street Bullies, and this Approach to one's guests, mm, it does seem a bit singular. We'll have Stephens or someone send Captain Smith a note, shall we,— invoking gently my own pois'd Thunderbolt, of course."
    "Oh Dear," Capt. Smith upon the Quarter-deck in the Winter's grudg'd Sunlight, the Letter fluttering in the Breeze,— from the direction of London, somewhere among a peak'd Convoy of Clouds, a steady Mutter as of Displeasure on High, "and yet I knew it. Didn't I. Ah,— misunderstood!”
    Far from any Extortion-scheme, it had rather been the Captain's own
Expectation,— the fancy of a Heart unschool'd in Guile,— that they
would of course all three be messing together, Day upon Day, the voyage
long, in his Quarters, drinking Madeira, singing Catches, exchanging
Sallies of Wit and theories about the Stars,— how else?— he being of
such a philosophickal leaning, and so starv'd for Discourse, it never
occurr'd to him that other Arrangements were even possible      
    "I assum'd, foolishly, that we'd go in equal Thirds, and meant to ask but your Share of what I hop'd to be spending, out of my personal Funds, upon your behalf,— not to mention that buying for three, at certain Chandleries, would've got me a discount,— Ah! What matter? Best of intentions, Gentlemen, no wish to offend the First Lord,— our Great Circumnavigator, after all, my Hero as a Lad...."
    "We regret it, Sir," Dixon offers, "— far too much Whim-Wham."
    Mason brings his Head up with a surpris'd look. "Saintly of you, considering your Screams could be heard out past the Isle of Wight? Now, previously unconsulted, / am expected to join this Love-Feast?"
    Dixon and the Captain, as if in Conspiracy, beam sweetly back till Mason can abide no more. "Very well,— tho' someone ought to have told you, Captain, of that Rutabageous Anemia which afflicts Lensmen as a Class,— the misunderstanding then should never have arisen."
    "Gracious of You, Mr. Mason," cries Dixon, heartily.
    "Most generous," adds the Captain.
    Tis arrang'd at last that they will be put in the Lieutenant's Mess, which is financ'd out of the Ship's Account,— that is, by the Navy,— and take their turns with the other principal Officers in dining with the Captain, whose dreams of a long, uneventful Voyage and plenty of Philo-sophick Conversation would thus have been abridg'd even had the l'Grand never emerg'd above the Horizon.
    On the eighth of December the Captain has an Express from the Admiralty, ordering him not to sail. "Furthermore," he informs Mason and Dixon, "Bencoolen is in the hands of the French. I see no mention of any plans to re-take the place soon. I am sorry."
    "I knew it... ?" Dixon walking away shaking his head.
    "We may still make the Cape of Good Hope in time," says Capt. Smith. "That'll likely be our destination, if and when they cut the Orders.”
    "No one else is going there to observe," Mason says. "Odd, isn't it? You'd think there'd be a Team from somewhere."
    Capt. Smith looks away, as if embarrass'd. "Perhaps there is?" he suggests, as gently as possible.
    As they proceed down the Channel, "Aye, and that's the Tail of the Bolt," a sailor informs them, "where the Ramillies went down but the year