Paul Gerrard, the Cabin Boy. William Henry Giles Kingston

with Reuben, on board the prize. Mr. Noakes did not forget the service he had rendered him, and was as kind as could well be. He called him aft one day.

      “Gerrard, my boy, you want to be a seaman, and though I can’t give you silver and gold, I can make you that, if you will keep your wits about you, and I’ll teach you navigation myself. You are a gentleman by birth, and that’s more than some of us can boast of being; but I don’t advise you to aspire to the quarter-deck. Without money or friends, you may repent being placed on it, as I have often done; that’s no reason, however, that you shouldn’t become fit to take command of a ship; a privateer or a merchantman may fall in your way; at all events, learn all you can.”

      Paul resolved to follow his new friend’s advice. A course was shaped for Plymouth, and the Aigle proceeded merrily on her way.

      Noakes could give good advice to others, but he did not follow after wisdom himself. He had a great failing, from the effects of which he had often suffered. Drink was his bane, as it is that of thousands. Several casks of prime claret were found on board; it would not have done much harm by itself, but there were some casks of brandy also. By mixing the two with some sugar, Noakes concocted a beverage very much to his taste. He kept his word with Paul as long as he was able, and lost no opportunity in giving him instruction in seamanship and navigation; but in time the attractions of his claret-cup were so great, that he was seldom in a condition to understand anything clearly himself, much less to explain it to another. Devereux and O’Grady expostulated in vain. He grew angry and only drank harder. The prisoners observed matters with inward satisfaction. They might have entertained hopes of regaining their ship. Alphonse warned Devereux.

      “They have not spoken to me, or I could not say this to you, but they may, so be prepared,” he observed one day as they were on deck together, no one else being near.

      Noakes was compelled to keep watch. He always carried on more than either of his companions ventured to do. It was night, and very dark; the first watch was nearly over; the weather, hitherto fine, gave signs of changing. Devereux, who had charge of the deck, was about to shorten sail, when Noakes came up to relieve him.

      “Hold all fast,” he sung out, adding, “Nonsense, Devereux, your wounds have made you weak and timid. We’ve a slashing breeze, and let’s take advantage of it to reach the shores of old England.”

      “Too much haste the worst speed,” observed Reuben to Paul; “our sticks are bending terribly, they’ll be whipping over the sides presently, or will capsize the craft altogether. I don’t like the look of things, that I don’t, I tell you.” Scarcely had he spoken, when a blast, fiercer than its predecessor, struck the ship.

      “Let fly of all,” shouted Noakes, sobered somewhat.

      The crew ran to obey the orders, but it came too late. Over went the tall ship; down, down, the raging tempest pressed her.

      “Axes, axes, cut, cut,” was heard from several mouths.

      “Follow me, Paul, and then cling on for your life,” cried Reuben Cole, climbing through a weather port; “it’s too late to save the ship.”