with the timeliness of the appearance of a reprieve in a melodrama, H.M.S. Plumper was seen steaming towards the port and signalling vigorously. What signal? Painful suspense, but nothing to be done till it is made out. Five minutes more-ten. "Well, signalman, make it out yet?" "Yes, sir. Annul Governor's orders about landing American troops." Hurrah!

The troops were landed. Those of my readers who have undergone the strain of responsibility will realise the intensity of the relief which that signal brought to our commanding officer's mind, indeed to all of us.

The fact was that old Douglas's nerve failed when he heard that that troopship was actually en voyage, and more prudent counsel, to which he had refused to listen at first, prevailed at last. So there was no conflict.

Governor Douglas undoubtedly possessed an enormous influence over the Indians everywhere, to such an extent that if he had "passed the word" they would have massacred every American on the coasts, but having lived most of his life in the wilds, much diplomatic 'cuteness or administrative capacity was not to be expected from him.

Diplomacy took the matter in hand, and kept it cheerfully in hand for the next thirteen years, as a "good ganging law-plea," than which, according to the Scotch, nothing is more remunerative.

Meanwhile a joint occupation was agreed upon, and carried out till 1872, when the Court of Saint James did "sign," in obedience to the German Emperor's arbitration, by which the line of demarcation was carried through the west or main channel, and San

Juan given up to the Americans. My pre-emption friend must have become rather tired of waiting for his claim during all those years.

Our return to Esquimalt was saddened by a dreadful accident, the more painful inasmuch as it need not have happened. While "in stays" under sail and steam, the mizen topmast-stay snapped under the strain of undue headway, and the mizen-topmast, sails, and rigging fell down abaft in a confused heap, out of which were extricated two mizen - topmen, Robert Bryson and L. Hackworthy, the former being dead, the latter badly injured.

It is a strange but well-established fact that accidents and epidemics always carry off the best men. Poor Bryson was a particularly smart and promising lad, and a great favourite with both officers and men, many of whom shed tears at his funeral, and especially with his topmates, who subscribed to cover his coffin with blue cloth. Gibson, a second class boy, not being a topman, was not asked to subscribe, but wishing to show his respect for the deceased, with whom he had been on terms of close friendship and affection, begged to be allowed to line the cloth with flannel at his own expense. Though there was something ridiculous in the idea, yet the honest good feeling of the boy was touching.

Bryson left a young brother behind him, to whom life must for some time have appeared a hideous blank, as the two were united in the closest ties of affection, and were always together.

Captain Hornby governed his crew on the sound principle of privileges being dependent upon conduct, especially in the matter of "leef." On every available occasion leave for a run on shore was given, and it was a man's own fault if he found himself debarred from being able to respond to the ever-welcome pipe— "Liberty men to muster!" In such a case he was either in the black list, had before "broken his leave," or come off the worse for liquor from his last leave; yet there were continuous desertions-no fewer than forty-shortly after our arrival at Esquimalt. The reasons were twofold. First, the attractions, or supposed attractions, offered by the diggings and local demand for labour. Secondly, for reasons connected with the captain which I have already explained (p. 228).

Among the first batch of deserters was Macfarlane, a "blue marine," a most respectable, well-educated man of exemplary character, who had latterly been singled out for special employment as "writer." Nevertheless he determined "to stash it" (give up, cut connection with), and got safely over to the American side, where he hired a small farm and was joined by two of our first-class boys, who stole a boat from the beach at Victoria wherein to cross the straits. That was in February 1859.

Early in the same month of the following year, just before we sailed homeward, Boyle noticed alongside a boat full of potatoes which were being offered for sale to the ship's company, and being struck by the excellence of their appearance, called out to the man in charge-"Those are very fine potatoes you have got there; where are they from?"

S

"From the American side," he replied, continuing after a pause, with a twinkle in his eye, during which something seemed to occur to him "They were grown by Mr. Macfarlane, who formerly belonged to your ship, I believe."

The marine had evidently prospered; but really it was a piece of cool cheek to send off his produce to be sold alongside his old ship, where he was “wanted,” though no doubt he had motives, partly to take advantage of a convenient market, partly perhaps pour encourager les autres, and partly to indulge-and very naturally so-in an exhibition of his success, independence, and security.

It was not necessary for a deserter always to take refuge on American soil, that is, if he were only a deserter malgré lui and not "wanted," as in the case of Boy Jones, who being incurably lazy, dirty, and useless, was sent on shore "to wash his clothes," a tacitly understood naval synonym for permission, even invitation, "to run," of which he discreetly availed himself, and was afterwards constantly visible in the capacity of potboy at a public-house in Victoria.

In addition to the large batch at the outset, we had numerous subsequent desertions.

During our stay at San Juan, I got into conversation with a "loafer," who asked, "Will you tell me your name, sir?"

"Tower. Why do you ask?"

"Oh, then you are the man I was telling Colonel Moody about the other day."

I was astonished, and then he proceeded to remind me of an incident, which, it appeared, not only secured me the good-will of a mob of about eighty loafers

(including my friend), whom I had seen, but also a complimentary paragraph in the Victoria Gazette, which I had not seen. It was thus :—

A sergeant with eight marines had been sent from the Tribune to "The Fort" to bring back a number of runaway blue-jackets who had been captured, but upon reaching a public-house on the outskirts of the town the prisoners refused to go any further unless they were allowed "to liquor up."

Now the sergeant's position became very difficult, because he dared not allow the prisoners to have drink on his own responsibility, yet all his efforts to get them to proceed without it were fruitless; meantime a lawless mob was fast gathering, who would have enjoyed nothing so much as a rescue.

At this critical moment, I, en route to post my monthly budget of meteorological notes for Lieutenant Maury at the Bureau, Washington City, fortunately walked by, and was immediately appealed to by the perplexed sergeant for advice.

Grasping the situation and the necessity for immediate action, I sung out cheerily, "Now, men, you can each have a drink if you'll promise to move on at once," to which they responded by a hearty, "All right, sir," in a tone which I interpreted as being their acceptance of a contract.

In five minutes after "drinks round" the whole party were in rapid march, and had hardly disappeared when six policemen (for whom the sergeant had at the outset despatched one of his men) rushed breathlessly on the vacant scene, the effect being distinctly amusing.

As the men had already managed to get grog