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“Well—one of ’em?”

“Pamela is the one I’m called by.”

“Pamela! That’s pretty!”

What was it to him if her name was pretty or not? But Pamela was determined to be long-suffering, more especially as she found the new acquaintance rather interesting; he was so far out of her ordinary course, and he had such a nice brown face.

“What’s yours?” she enquired.

“Antony St. Croix—Tony for choice.”

“That’s a funny name for—for———”

“A common sailor? Well yes, it is rather. So I don’t use it much—I say Cross or Croy. They sound more—natural, don’t they?”

“Yes. . . . Do you like being a sailor?”

“Of course I do.” (“But I don’t know why I should say ‘of course,’” he reflected; “one doesn’t necessarily like one’s work.”)

“You don’t speak the way they usually do.”

“You mean I don’t drop my ‘h’s’?”

Pamela’s face went a brighter pink; she stammered slightly, and Tony was sorry he had spoken.

“I’ve been with people who talked differently,” he explained.

He was obviously not offended and Pamela was much relieved; she hated hurting people. “You’re—pretty young, aren’t you?” she said, rather timidly, after a short pause.

“I suppose so. I’m sixteen. I don’t feel very young. I was working when I was your age.”

The blue eyes opened very wide indeed. “Why?”

Tony laughed full-throated. “That’s a long story,” said he.

He looked curiously at Pamela; her hands were propping her chin; her elbows rested on her knees; fine smooth