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 has been instituted. I don't know whether she or Garth began it, but both of them play at it with equal energy. Jim and I became aware one morning that our son was, in reality, Captain Crosstrees, and our guest Bo'sun Ben Bobstay—both belonging, as far as we can make out, to a bygone age, the "good days" of Jim's tales. Their conversation is nautical in the extreme—though I regret to say that the Captain frequently lapses into very modern speech—and their behaviour most salty. They go for long rows and short sails alone (you can see how much she has risen in Jim's estimation when he trusts her with Garth and the Ailouros). What they do on these trips, I don't know, but I imagine that they are on three-year cruises, discovering strange lands, pirate isles, and what not, beneath imaginary Southern stars. Jim sometimes joins in, playing every rôle, from Admiral and Sea Lord to cabin-boy; but I am a sorry creature and have not even been taken on as ship's cook. I am content, however, because Captain Crosstrees still has need of me in my old capacity—as his Mudder—and to see him at twilight, half-asleep in my arms, you would never suspect that he had just come in from a voyage around the Horn. But it is hard to recognize in Ben Bobstay, that rollicking and "uneddicated" salt, the stately young lady whose shade-hat blew out to sea not so long ago. So I give her credit—her, or Garth, or the Genius of the Briny Deep—for a great improvement.

I told you, I think, how she took Garth to town at a summons from the doctor, and how well she managed the expedition. Dr. Stone, by the way, said,