I'm the supreme dregs." Somehow the letter from Virginia had decided Dyck Calhoun's fate for him.

Here he was--at sea, a common sailor in the navy.

He and Michael Clones had eaten and drunk as sailors do, and they had realized that, as they ate and drank on the River Thames, they would not eat and drink on the watery fairway.

They had seen the tank foul with age, from which water was drawn for men who could not live without it, and the smell of it had revolted Dyck's senses.

They had seen the kegs of pickled meat, and they had been told of the evil rations given to the sailors at sea.
The Ariadne had been a flag-ship in her day, the home of an admiral and his staff.