"That's a historic picture of the gang." I held it to the light, my curiosity at a low ebb: I had seen Captain Trent once, and had no delight in viewing him again.

It was a photograph of the deck of the brig, taken from forward: all in apple-pie order; the hands gathered in the waist, the officers on the poop.

At the foot of the card was written "Brig Flying Scud, Rangoon," and a date; and above or below each individual figure the name had been carefully noted.
As I continued to gaze, a shock went through me; the dimness of sleep and fatigue lifted from my eyes, as fog lifts in the channel; and I beheld with startled clearness the photographic presentment of a crowd of strangers.

"J.

Trent, Master" at the top of the card directed me to a smallish, weazened man, with bushy eyebrows and full white beard, dressed in a frock coat and white trousers; a flower stuck in his button-hole, his bearded chin set forward, his mouth clenched with habitual determination.