"This," said the Archdeacon, in a hollow voice, "is a hideous dream. It must be. I shall wake up presently in my own bed."
"Not you," said Chloë. "The next place you'll wake up in, unless you listen to reason, will be the hold of a whaler."
"A what?" cried her father. "A whale?"
Chloë squeaked a laugh. "No," she said, "you're not cast to play Jonah, your Reverence. I said a whaler. A ship, ye ken. She sails to-night on the ebb, and she'll be away three years, not less. We've booked a berth for you in the fo'c'sle under the name of Edgar Trix. Captain Buggins is expecting you in half an hour's time. Whether you join up or no depends entirely on yourself. I suppose you understand what I mean."
"I confess, Chloë," said the Archdeacon, "that I am too utterly overwhelmed by
