"They'll be cheated, of course, poor devils," a senior clerk from the Port Admiral's offices muttered to Lewrie as they watched the proceedings from the door to the officers' gun-room.

"The Chatham Chest, deductions for Widows' Men… the jobbers," Lewrie sombrely agreed.

"Most of them will never see the Councillor of the Cheque, but will sell off their chits for half their value to the first jobber they meet," the senior clerk said with a sniff of disdain for the practice.

Selling them off was cheaper and more convenient than travelling to London for the whole sum owing; a wad of paper fiat money and a hefty handful of real, now-rare solid coin was simply too tempting to a tar who hadn't seen money-real money!-since his ship had set sail years before, even if was but a pittance of what a man earned.

"Aye, and they'll drink up half o' that the first ev'nin'," Lewrie added. "Find a whore and a tavern… and end up 'crimped' on a merchantman. Only trade most of'em know, really… the sea."

"Aye, poor fellows," the senior clerk said with a grave, sad nod and another sniff. "Though," he added with a wry grin, "if the war begins again, they'll be much easier to find, and press back into the Fleet, hmm?"

"Uhm, Captain Lewrie, sir," a fubsy official from the dockside warehouses interrupted. "Your pardon, gentlemen, do I intrude upon a conversation, but… I do not see these iron stoves listed as naval property, and I must have a proper accounting of everything aboard."

"They aren't Navy issue, sir," Lewrie informed him. "Captain Speaks, whom I relieved when he fell ill, had purchased them for the crew's comfort for service in the North Sea winters."

"Most charitable and considerate of him, I vow, sir, but… I cannot accept them into Admiralty possession, these two… "