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Title:      A Certain Dr Thorndyke
Author:     R Austin Freeman
eBook No.:  0500351.txt
Edition:    1
Language:   English
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Date first posted:          April 2005
Date most recently updated: April 2005

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Title:      A Certain Dr Thorndyke
Author:     R Austin Freeman



BOOK 1 – THE ISHMAELITE

I. THE FUGITIVE

The tropic moon shone brightly on the village of Adaffia in the Bight of
Benin as a fishing-canoe steered warily through the relatively quiet surf
of the dry season towards the steep beach. Out in the roadstead an
anchored barque stood up sharply against the moonlit sky, the yellow
spark of her riding light glimmering warmly, and a white shape dimly
discernible in the approaching canoe hinted of a visitor from the sea.
Soon the little craft, hidden for a while in the white smother of a
breaking wave, emerged triumphant and pushed her pointed nose up the
beach; the occupants leaped out and, seizing her by her inturned
gunwales, hauled her forthwith out of reach of the following wave.

"You know where to go?" the Englishman demanded, turning a grim, hatchet
face towards the "headman." "Don't take me to the wrong house."

The headman grinned. "Only one white man live for Adaffia. Me sabby him
proper." He twisted a rag of cotton cloth into a kind of turban, clapped
it on his woolly pate and, poising on top a battered cabin-trunk, strode
off easily across the waste of blown sand that separated the beach from a
forest of coconut palms that hid the village. The Englishman followed
less easily, his shod feet sinking into the loose sand; and as he went,
he peered with a stranger's curiosity along the deserted beach and into
the solemn gloom beneath the palms, whence came the rhythmical clamour of
drums and the sound of many voices join ing in a strange, monotonous
chant.

Through the ghostly colonnade of palm trunks, out into the narrow,
tortuous alleys that served for streets, between rows of mud-built hovels
roofed with unkempt grass thatch, where all was inky blackness in the
shadow and silvery grey in the light, the stranger followed his guide;
and ever the noise of the drums and the melancholy chant drew nearer.
Suddenly the two men emerged from an alley into a large open space and in
an instant passed from the stillness of the empty streets into a scene of
the strangest bustle and uproar. In the middle of the space was a group
of men, seated on low stools, who held between their knees drums of
various sizes, which they were beating noisily, though by no means
unskilfully, some with crooked sticks, others with the flat of the hand.
Around the musicians a circle of dancers moved in an endless procession,
the men and the women forming separate groups; and while the former
danced furiously, writhing with starting muscles and streaming skins, in
gestures grotesque and obscene, the latter undulated languorously with
half-closed eyes and rhythmically moving arms.

The Englishman had halted in the black shadow to look on at this singular
scene and to listen to the strange chant that rang out at intervals from
dancers and spectators alike, when his guide touched him on the arm and
pointed.

"Look, Mastah!" said he; "dem white man live. You look um?"

The stranger looked over the heads of the dancers, and, sure enough, in
the very midst of the revellers, he espied a fellow-countryman seated on
a green-painted gin-case, the sides of which he was pounding with his
fists in unsuccessful emulation of the drummers. He was not a spectacle
to engender undue pride of race. To begin with, he was obviously drunk,
and as he drummed on the case and bellowed discordantly at intervals, he
was not dignified. Perhaps to be drunk and dignified at one and the same
time is not easy, and assuredly the task is made no easier by a costume
consisting of a suit of ragged pyjamas, the legs tucked into scarlet
socks, gaudy carpet slippers, and a skullcap of of plaited grass. But
such was the garb of this representative of a superior race, and the
final touch was given to a raffish ensemble by an unlit cigar that
waggled from the corner of his mouth.

The stranger stood for a minute or more watching, in silence and with
grim disapproval, this unedifying spectacle, when a sudden interruption
occurred. One of the dancers, a big, powerful ruffian, in giving an extra
flourish to his performance, struck his foot against the gin-case and
staggered on to the seated white man, who, with a loud, foolish laugh,
caught him playfully by the ankle. As a result, the big negro toppled
over and fell sprawling amongst the drummers. In an instant all was
confusion and uproar. The drummers pummelled the fallen man, the women
howled, the men shouted, and the drunken white man yelled with idiotic
laughter. Then the big negro leaped to his feet with a roar of fury, and
rushing at the white man, closed with him. The gin-case turned turtle at
the first onset, the two combatants flew off gyrating amongst the legs of
the crowd, mowing down a little lane as they went; and for some moments
nothing could be distinguished save a miscellaneous heap of black bodies
and limbs with a pair of carpet slippers kicking wildly in the air. But
the white man, if lacking in dignity and discretion, was not deficient in
valour. He was soon on his feet and hitting out right and left with
uncommon liveliness and spirit. This, however, could not, and did not,
last long; a simultaneous rush of angry negroes soon bore him to the
ground and there seemed every prospect of his being very severely mauled.

It was at this moment that the stranger abandoned his role of a neutral
spectator. Taking off his helmet and depositing it carefully in the angle
of a mud wall, he lowered his head, thrust forward his shoulder, and
charged heavily into the midst of the shouting mob. Now, the Slave Coast
native is a sturdy, courageous fellow and truculent withal; but he does
not play the Rugby game and he is a stranger alike to the subtler aspects
of pugilism and the gentle art of ju-jitsu. Consequently the tactics of
the new assailant created quite a sensation among the Adaffia men. Their
heels flew up unaccountably, their heads banged together from unknown
causes, mysterious thumps, proceeding from nowhere in particular with the
weight of a pile-monkey, stretched them gasping on the earth; and when
they would have replied in kind, behold! the enemy was not there! They
rushed at him with outstretched hands and straightway fell upon their
stomachs; they grabbed at his head and caught nothing but a pain in the
shoulder or a tap under the chin; and the sledge hammer blow that was to
have annihilated him either spent itself on empty air or, impinging upon
the countenance of an ally, led to misunderstanding and confusion.
Hampered by their own numbers and baffled by the incredible quickness of
their elusive adversary, they began to view his strange manoeuvres as
feats of magic. The fire of battle died down, giving place to doubt,
bewilderment, and superstitious fear. The space widened round the white,
silent, swiftly- moving figure; the more faint-hearted made off with
their hands clapped to their mouths, screeching forth the hideous Efé
alarm cry; the panic spread, and the remainder first backed away and then
fairly broke into a run. A minute later the place was deserted save or
the two Europeans and the headman.

The stranger had pursued the retreating mob for some distance, tripping
up the stragglers or accelerating their movements by vigorous hammerings
from behind, and he now returned, straightening out his drill jacket and
dusting the grimy sand from his pipe clayed shoes with a silk
handkerchief. The other white man had by this time returned to the
gin-case, on which he was once more enthroned with one of the abandoned
drums between his knees, and, as his compatriot approached, he executed a
martial roll and would have burst into song but that the cigar, which had
been driven into his mouth during the conflict, now dropped into his
throat and reduced him temporarily to the verge of suffocation.

"Many thanks, dear chappie," said he, when he had removed the
obstruction; "moral s'pport most valuable; uphold dignity of white man;
congratulate you on your style; do credit to Richardsons. Excuse my not
rising; reasons excellent; will appear when I do." In fact his clothing
had suffered severely in the combat.

The stranger looked down at the seated figure silently and with tolerant
contempt. A stern-faced, grim-looking man was this new-comer,
heavy-browed, square-jawed, and hatchet-faced, and his high- shouldered,
powerful figure set itself in a characteristic pose, with the feet wide
apart and the hands clasped behind the back as he stood looking down on
his new acquaintance.

"I suppose," he said, at length, "you realize that you're as drunk as an
owl?"

"I s'spected it," returned the other gravely. "Not's an owl, though; owls
very ternp'rate in these parts."

At this moment the headman rose from the cabin-trunk, on which he had
seated himself to view the conflict, and, picking up the stranger's
helmet, brought it to him.

"Mastah," said he, earnestly, "you go for house one time. Dis place no
good. Dem people be angry too much; he go fetch gun."

"You hear that?" said the stranger. "You'd better clear off home."

"Ver' well, dear boy," replied the other, suavely. "Call hansom; we'll
both go."

"Whereabouts do you live?" demanded the stranger.

The other man looked up with a bland smile. "Grosvenor Square, ol'
fellow, A1; brass knocker 'stinguishers on doorstep. Tell cabby knock
three times and ring bottom bell." He picked up the cigar and began
carefully to wipe the sand from it.

"Do you know where he lives?" asked the stranger, turning to the headman.

"Yass; me sabby. He live for factory. You make him come one time, Mastah.
You hear dat?"

The sound of the strange and dismal Efé alarm cry (produced by shouting
or screaming continuously and patting the mouth quickly with the flat of
the hand) was borne down from the farther end of the village. The headman
caught up the trunk and started off up the street, while the stranger,
having hoisted the seated man off the gin-case with such energy that he
staggered round in a half-circle, grasped him from behind by both arms
and urged him forward at a brisk trot.

"Here, I say!" protested the latter, "nosso fast, d'ye hear? I've dropped
my slipper. Lemme pick up my slipper."

To these protests the stranger paid no attention, but continued to hustle
his captive forward with undiminished energy.

"Lemme go, confound you! You're shaking me all to bits!" exclaimed the
captive; and, as the other continued to shove silently, he continued:
"Now I un'stand why you boosted those niggers so neatly. You're a bobby,
that's what you are. I know the professional touch. A blooming escaped
bobby. Well, I'm jiggered!" He lapsed, after this, into gloomy silence,
and a few minutes' more rapid travelling brought the party to a high
palm-leaf fence. A primitive gate was unfastened, by the simple process
of withdrawing a skewer from a loop of cord, and they entered a compound
in the middle of which stood a long, low house. The latter was mud-built
and thatched with grass like the houses in the village, from which,
indeed, it differed only in that its mud walls were whitewashed and
pierced for several windows.

"Lemme welcome you to my humble cot," said the proprietor, following the
headman, who had unceremoniously walked into the house and dumped down
the cabin-trunk. The stranger entered a small, untidy room lighted by a
hurricane-lamp, and, having dismissed the headman with a substantial
"dash," or present, turned to face his host.

"Siddown," said the latter, dropping into a dilapidated Madeira chair and
waving his hand towards another. "Less' have a talk. Don't know your
name, but you seem to be a decent feller--for a bobby. My name's Larkom,
John Larkom, agent for Foster Brothers. This is Fosters' factory."

The stranger looked curiously round the room--so little suggestive of a
factory in the European sense--and then, as he seated himself, said:
"You probably know me by name: I am John Walker, of whom you have--"

He was interrupted by a screech of laughter from Larkom, who flung
himself back in his chair with such violence as to bring that piece of
furniture to the verge of dissolution.

"Johnny Walker!" he howled. "My immortal scissors! Sh'ld think I do know
you; more senses than one. I've got a letter about you--'ll show it to
you. Where is that blamed letter?" He dragged out a table-drawer and
rooted among a litter of papers, from which he at length extracted a
crumpled sheet of paper. "Here we are. Letter from Hepburn. You 'member
Hepburn? He and I at Oxford together. Merton, y'know. Less see what he
says. Ah! here you are; I'll read it: 'And now I want you to do me a
little favour. You will receive a visit from a pal of mine who, in
consequence of certain little indiscretions, is for the moment under a
cloud, and I want you, if you can, to put him up and keep him out of
sight. His fame I am not permitted to disclose, since being, as I have
said, 'sub nube', just at present, and consequently not in search of fame
or notoriety. he elects to travel under the modest and appropriate name
of Walker.'" At this point Larkom once more burst into a screech of
laughter. "Funny devil, Hepburn! awful rum devil," he mumbled, leering
idiotically at the letter that shook in his hand; then, wiping his eyes
on the gaudy "trade" tablecloth, he resumed his reading. "'He need not
cause you any inconvenience, and you won't mind his company as he is
quite a decent fellow--he entered at Merton just after you went down--
and he won't be any expense to you; in fact, with judicious management,
he may be made to yield a profit, since he will have some money with him
and is, between ourselves, somewhat of a mug.' Rum devil, awful rum
devil," sniggered Larkom. "Doncher think so?" he added, grinning
foolishly in the other man's face.

"Very," replied the stranger, stolidly. But he did not look particularly
amused.

"'I think that is all I have to tell you,'" Larkom continued, reading
from the letter. "'I hope you will be able to put the poor devil up, and,
by the way, you need not let on that I have told you about his little
misfortunes.'" Larkom looked up with a ridiculous air of vexation. "There
now," he exclaimed, "I've given old Hepburn away like a silly fool. But
no, it was he that was a silly fool. He shouldn't have told me."

"No, he should not," agreed Walker.

"'Course not," said Larkom with drunken gravity. "Breach o' confidence.
However, 's all right. 'Pend on me. Close as a lock-jawed oyster. What'll
you drink?"

He waved his hand towards the table, on which a plate of limes, a stone
gin jar, a bottle of bitters with a quill stuck through the cork, and a
swizzle-stick, stained purple by long service, invited to conviviality.

"Have a cocktail," said Larkom. "Wine of the country. Good old
swizzle-stick. I'll mix it. Or p'rhaps," he sniggered, slyly, "p'raps
you'd rather have a drop of Johnny Walker--ha! ha! Hallo! Here they are.
D'ye hear 'em?" A confused noise of angry voices was audible outside the
compound and isolated shouts separated themselves now and again from the
general hubbub.

"They're callin' us names," chuckled Larkom. "Good thing you don't
un'stand the language. The nigger can be rude. Personal abuse as a fine
art. Have a cocktail."

"Hadn't I better go out and send them about their business?" asked
Walker.

"Lor' bless you, they haven't got any business," was the reply. "No,
siddown. Lerrum alone and they'll go home. Have a cocktail." He
compounded one for himself, swizzling up the pink mixture with deliberate
care and pouring it down his throat with the skill of a juggler; and when
Walker had declined the refreshment and lit his pipe, the pair sat and
listened to the threats and challenges from the outer darkness. The
attitude of masterly inactivity was justified by its results, for the
noise subsided by degrees, and presently the rumble of drums and the
sound of chanting voices told them that the interrupted revels had been
resumed.

After the third application to the stone bottle Larkom began to grow
sleepy and subsided into silence, broken at intervals by an abortive
snore. Walker meanwhile smoked his pipe and regarded his host with an air
of gloomy meditation. At length, as the latter became more and more
somnolent, he ventured to rouse him up.

"You haven't said what you are going to do, Larkom," said he. "Are you
going to put me up for a time?

Larkom sat up in the squeaking chair and stared at him owlishly. "Put you
up, ol' f'ler?" said he. "Lor bless you, yes. Wodjer think? Bed been
ready for you for mor'n a week. Come'n look at it. Gettin' dam late.
Less' turn in." He took up the lamp and walked with unsteady steps
through a doorway into a small, bare room, the whitewashed walls of which
were tastefully decorated with the mud-built nests of solitary wasps. It
contained two bedsteads, each fitted with a mosquito net and furnished
with a mattress, composed of bundles of rushes lashed together, and
covered with a grass mat.

"Thash your doss, ol' f'ler," said Larkom, placing the lamp on the
packing-case that served for a table, "this is mine. Goo' night!" He
lifted the mosquito-curtain, crept inside, tucked the curtain under the
mattress, and forthwith began to snore softly.

Walker fetched in his trunk from the outer room, and, as he exchanged his
drill clothes (which he folded carefully as he removed them) for a suit
of pyjamas, he looked curiously round the room. A huge, hairy spider was
spread out on the wall as if displayed in a collector's cabinet, and
above him a brown cockroach of colossal proportions twirled his long
antennae thoughtfully. The low, bumpy ceiling formed a promenade for two
pallid, goggle-eyed lizards, who strolled about, defiant of the laws of
gravity, picking up an occasional moth or soft-shelled beetle as they
went. When he was half undressed an enormous fruit-bat, with a head like
that of a fox-terrier, blundered in through the open window and flopped
about the room in noisy panic for several minutes before it could find
its way out again.

At length he put out the lamp, and creeping inside his curtain, tucked it
in securely; and soon, despite the hollow boom of the surf, the whistle
of multitudinous bats, the piping of the mosquitoes, and the sounds of
revelry from the village, he fell asleep and slept until the sun streamed
in on to the whitewashed wall.

II. THE LEGA TEE

LARKOM appeared to have that tolerance of alcohol that is often, to be
observed in the confirmed soaker. As he sat with his guest in the
living-room, taking his early tea, although he looked frail and broken in
health, there was nothing in his appearance to suggest that he 1 quite
recently been very drunk. Nor, on the other hand, was his manner very
different from that of the previous night, save that his articulation and
his wits were both clearer.

"What made you pick out this particular health-resort for your little
holiday?" he asked. "It isn't what you would call a fashionable
watering-place."

"No," replied Walker. "That was the attraction. I had heard about you
from Hepburn--he is my brother-in-law, you know--and as it seemed, from
what he said, that your abode was on the very outside edge of the world,
I marked it down as a good place to disappear in."

Larkom grinned. "You are not a bad judge, old chappie. Disappearing is
our speciality. We are famous for it. Always have been. How does the old
mariners' ditty run? You remember it? 'Oh, the Bight of Benin, the Bight
of Benin, One comes out where three go in.' But perhaps that wasn't
exactly what was in your mind?"

"It wasn't. I could have managed that sort of disappearance without
coming so far. But look here, Larkom, let us have a clear understanding.
I came here on spec, not having much time to make arrangements, on the
chance that you might be willing to put me up and give me a job. But I
haven't come to fasten on to you. If my presence here will be in any way
a hindrance to you, you've only got to say so and I will move on. And I
shan't take it as unfriendly. I quite understand that you have your
principals to consider."

"Principals be blowed!" said Larkom. "They don't come into it; and as to
me, I can assure you, J. W., that this is the first stroke of luck I've
had for years. After vegetating in this God-forgotten hole with nobody
but buck-niggers to speak to, you can imagine what it is to me to have a
pukka white man--and a gentleman at that--under my roof. I feel like
chanting 'Oomine, non sum dignus'; but if you can put up with me, stay as
long as you care to, and understand that you are doing me a favour by
staying."

"It is very handsome of you, Larkom, to put it in that way," said Walker,
a little huskily. "Of course, l understand the position and I accept your
offer gratefully. But we must put the arrangement on a business footing.
I'm not going to sponge on you. I must pay my share of the expenses, and
if I can give you any help in working the factory--"

"Don't you be afraid, old chappie," interrupted Larkom. "I'll keep your
nose on the grindstone; and as to sharing up, we can see to that later
when we cast up the accounts. As soon as we have lapped up our tea, we
will go out to the store and I will show you the ropes. They aren't very
complicated, though they are in a bit of a tangle just now. But that is
where you will come in, dear boy."

Larkom's statement as to the "tangle" was certainly no exaggeration. The
spectacle of muddle and disorder that the store presented filled Walker
at once with joy and exasperation. After a brief tour of the premises,
during which he listened in grim silence to Larkom's explanations, he
deliberately peeled off his jacket--which he folded up neatly and put in
a place of safety--and fell to work on the shelves and lockers with a
concentrated energy that reduced the native helper to gibbering
astonishment and Larkom to indulgent sniggers.

"Don't overdo it, old chap," the latter admonished. "Remember the
climate. And there's no hurry. Plenty of spare time in these parts. Leave
yourself a bit for to-morrow." To all of which advice Walker paid no
attention whatever, but slogged away at the confused raffle of
stock-in-trade without a pause until close upon noon, when the cook came
out to announce that "chop live for table." And even this was but a
temporary pause; for soon after breakfast--or tiffin, as the
Anglo-Indian calls it--when Larkom showed a tendency to doze in his
chair with a tumbler of gin toddy, he stole away to renew his onslaught
while the native assistant attended to the "trade."

During the next few days he was kept pretty fully occupied. Not that
there was much business doing at the factory, but Larkom's hand having
become of late so tremulous that writing was impossible, the posting of
books and answering of letters had automatically ceased.

"You're a perfect godsend to me, old chappie," said Larkom, when, by dint
of two days' continuous labour, the books had been brought up to date,
and Walker attacked the arrears of correspondence. "The firm wouldn't
have stood it much longer. They've complained of my handwriting already.
If you hadn't come I should have got the order of the boot to a
certainty. Now they'll think I've got a native clerk from somewhere at my
own expense."

"How about the signature?" Walker asked. "Can you manage that?"

That's all right, dear boy," said Larkom cheerfully. "You sign slowly
while I kick the table. They'll never twig the difference."

By means of this novel aid to calligraphy the letter was completed and
duly dispatched by a messenger to catch the land post at Quittah. Then
Walker had leisure to look about him and study the methods of West Coast
trade and the manners and customs of his host. Larkom sober was not very
different from Larkom drunk--amiable, easy-going, irresponsible, and
only a little less cheerful. Perhaps he was better drunk. At any rate,
that was his own opinion, and he acted up to it consistently. What would
have happened had there had been any appreciable trade at Adaffia it is
impossible to guess. As it was, the traffic was never beyond the capacity
of Larkom even at his drunkest. Once or twice during the day a party of
bush natives would stroll into the compound with a demijohn of palm oil
or a calabash full of kernels, or a man from a neighbouring village would
bring in a bushel or so of copra, and then the premises would hum with
business. The demijohn would be emptied into a puncheon or the kernels
stowed in bags ready for shipment, and the vendors would receive their
little dole of threepenny pieces--the ordinary currency of the coast.
Then the vendors would change into purchasers. A length of baft or
calico, a long flint-lock gun with red-painted stock, a keg of powder, or
a case of gin would replace the produce they had brought; the threepenny
pieces would drift back into the chest whence they had come, and the deal
would be completed.

At these functions Walker, owing to his ignorance of the language,
appeared chiefly in the role of onlooker, though he took a hand at the
scales, when he was about, and helped to fill the canvas bags with
kernels. But he found plenty of time to wander about the village and
acknowledge the appreciative grins of the men whom he had hammered on the
night of his arrival or the courteous salutations of the women.
Frequently in the afternoons he would stroll out to sit on the dry sand
at high-water mark and, as the feathery leaves of the sea-washed palms
pattered above him in the breeze, would gaze wistfully across the blue
and empty ocean. One day a homeward-bound steamer came into the bay to
anchor in Quittah roads; and then his gaze grew more wistful and the
stern face softened into sadness.

Presently Larkom hove in sight under the palms, carol ling huskily and
filling a gaudy trade pipe. He came and sat down by Walker, and having
struck some two dozen Swedish matches without producing a single spark,
gazed solemnly at the steamer.

"Yellow funnel boat," he observed; "that'll be the Niger, old Rattray's
boat. She's going home, dear boy, home to England, where hansom cabs and
green peas and fair ladies and lamb chops--."

"Oh, shut up, Larkom!" exclaimed the other, gruffly.

"Right, dear boy. Mum's the word," was the bland reply, as Larkom resumed
his fruitless attack on the matches. "But there's one thing I've been
going to say to you," he continued after a pause, "and it's this--
confound these damstinkers; I've used up a whole box for nothing--I was
going to say that you'd better not show yourself out on the beach
unnecessarily. I don't know what your little affair amounts to, but I
should say that, if it was worth your while to cut away from home, it's
worth your while to stop away."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that you are still within the jurisdiction of the English courts;
and if you should have been traced to the ship and you let yourself be
seen, say, by any of the Germans who pass up and down from Quittah to
Lomé or Bagidá, why, some fine day you may see an officer of the Gold
Coast bearing down on you with a file of Hausas, and then it would be ho!
for England, home, and beauty. You sabby?"

"I must take that risk," growled Walker. "I can't stay skulking in the
house, and I'm not going to."

"As you please, dear boy," said Larkom. "I only mentioned the matter.
Verbum sap. No offence, I hope."

"Of course not," replied Walker.

"I don't think you are in any immediate danger," pursued Larkom. "Old
chief Akolatchi looked in on me just now and he tells me that there are
no white officers at Quittah. The doctor died of blackwater fever two
days ago, and the commissioner is sick and is off to Madeira by this
steamer. Still, you had better keep your weather eyelid lifting."

"I mean to," said Walker; and knocking out his pipe on the heel of his
shoe, he rose and shook the sand from his clothes.

"If you'll excuse my harping on a disagreeable topic, old chappie," said
Larkom, as they strolled homewards along the beach, "I think you would be
wise to take some elementary precautions."

"What sort?" asked Walker.

"Well, supposing you were traced to that barque, the Sappho, it would be
easy to communicate with her skipper when she comes to her station at
Half-Jack. Then they might ascertain that a gent named Johnny Walker with
a golden beard and a Wellington nose had been put ashore at Adaffia.
You're a fairly easy chappie to describe, with that Romanesque boko, and
fairly easy to recognize from a description."

"But, damn it, Larkom! You're not suggesting that I should cut off my
nose, are you?"

"God forbid, dear boy! But you might cut off your beard and drop Johnny
Walker. A clean shave and a new name would make a world of difference. No
native would recognize you without your beard."

"Perhaps not. But a white police officer would spot me all right. A clean
shave and a different name wouldn't deceive him."

"Not if he really meant business. But the local officials here will be
pretty willing to turn a blind eye. They are not keen on arresting a
white man with a parcel of niggers looking on. Lowers the prestige of the
race. If a constabulary officer came down here to arrest a bearded man
named Walker and found only a clean-shaved covey of the name of Cook,
he'd probably say that there was no one here answering the description
and go back perfectly satisfied with his tongue in his cheek."

"Do you think he really would?"

"I do. At any rate, you may as well give the authorities a chance; meet
'em half-way. Don't you think so?"

"I suppose it is the reasonable thing to do. Very well, Larkom, I will
take your advice and turn myself into a bald-faced stag--I noticed that
you have some razors in the store. And as to the name, well, I will adopt
your suggestion in that, too. 'Cook' will do as well as any other."

"Better, old chap. Distinguished name. Great man, James Cook.
Circumnavigator; all round my hat."

"All the same," said Walker, alias Cook, "I fancy you are a trifle
over-optimistic. If an officer were sent down here with a warrant, I
think he would have to execute it if he could. He would be running a
biggish risk if he let himself be bamboozled."

"Well, dear boy," replied Larkom, "you do the transformation trick and
trust in Providence. It's quite likely that the local authorities will
make no move; and if a G.C.C. officer should turn up and insist on
mistaking James Cook for Johnny Walker, I daresay we could find some way
of dealing with him."

The other man smiled grimly. "Yes," he agreed. "I don't think he'd
mistake James Cook for Mary's little lamb."

As they entered the compound a quarter of an hour later, a native rose
from the kernel bag on which he had been seated, and disengaging from the
folds of his cloth a soiled and crumpled letter, held it out to Larkom.
The latter opened it with tremulous haste and, having glanced through it
quickly, emitted a long, low whistle.

"Sacked, by jiggers!" he exclaimed, and handed the letter to his guest.
It was a brief document and came the point without circumlocution. The
Adaffia factory was a financial failure, "whatever it might have been
under other management," and the firm hereby dispensed with Mr. Larkom's
services. "But," the letter concluded, "as we are unwilling to leave a
white man stranded on the Coast, we hereby make over to you, in lieu of
notice, the factory and such stock as remains in it, the same to be your
own property; and we hope that you will be able to carry on the trade to
more advantage for yourself than you have for us."

"Devilish liberal of them," groaned Larkom, "for I've been a rotten bad
servant to the firm. But I shall never make anything of it. I'm a regular
waster, old chappie, and the sooner the land-crabs have me, the better it
will be for everyone." He lifted the lid of a gin-case and dejectedly
hoisted out a high-shouldered, square-faced Dutch bottle.

"Stop this boozing, Larkom," said Cook, late Walker. "Pull yourself
together, man, and let us see if we can't make a do of it." He spoke
gently enough, with his hand on the other man's shoulder, for the thought
of his own wrecked life had helped him to understand. It was not the mere
loss of employment that had hit Larkom so hard. It was the realization,
sudden and complete, of his utter futility; of his final irrevocable
failure in the battle of life.

"It's awfully good of you, old chap," he said dismally; "but I tell you,
I'm beyond redemption." He paused irresolutely and then added: "However,
we'll stow the lush for the present and talk things over." and he let the
bottle slip back into its compartment and, shut down the lid.

But he was in no mood for talking things over, at present. The sense of
utter failure appeared to have overwhelmed him completely, and, though he
made no further attempt upon the gin-case that evening, his spirits
seemed to sink lower and lower until, about ten o'clock, he rose from his
chair and silently tottered off to bed, looking pitiably frail and
broken.

It was about two o'clock in the morning when Cook awoke to the
consciousness of a very singular noise. He sat up in bed to listen. A
strange, quick rattle, like the chatter of a jigsaw, came from the
rickety bed on which Larkom slept, and with it was mingled a confused
puffing that came and went in quick gusts.

"Anything the matter, Larkom?" he asked anxiously; and then, as a broken
mumble and a loud chattering of teeth came in reply, he sprang from the
bed and struck a match. A single glance made every- thing clear. The
huddled body, shaking from head to foot, the white, pinched face, the
bloodless hands with blue finger-nails, clutching the scanty
bed-coverings to the trembling chin, presented a picture of African fever
that even a newcomer could recognize. Hastily he lit a candle, and,
gathering up every rag that he could lay hands on, from his own
travelling-rug to the sitting-room table-cloth, piled them on to his
shivering comrade until the sick man looked like a gigantic caddis worm.

After an hour or so the violence of the shivering fit abated; gradually
the colour returned to the white face until its late pallor gave place to
a deep flush. The heaped coverings were thrown on the floor, the sufferer
fidgeted restlessly about the bed, his breathing became hurried, and
presently he began to babble at intervals, This state of affairs lasted
for upwards of an hour. Then a few beads of perspiration appeared on the
sick man's forehead; the chatterings and mumblings and broken snatches of
song died away, and, as the parched skin broke out into dewy moisture, a
look of intelligence came back to the vacant face.

"Cover me up, old chappie," said Larkom, turning over with a deep sigh.
"Air strikes chilly. Thanks, old fellow; let's have the table-cloth, too.
That's ripping. Now you turn in and get a bit of sleep. Sorry to have
routed you up like this." He closed his eyes and at once began to doze,
and Cook, creeping back to bed, lay and watched him by the light of the
flickering candle. Then he, too, fell asleep.

When he awoke it was broad daylight, and through the open door he could
see Larkom standing by the table in the sitting-room, wrapped in the rug.
The Fanti cook was seated at the table and the solitary Kroo boy, who
formed the staff of the factory, stood by his supplementary chair, his
eyes a-goggle with curiosity.

"Now, Kwaku," Larkom was saying, "you see that pencil mark. Well, you
take this pen and make a mark on top of it--so." He handed the pen to
the cook, who evidently followed the instructions, for his tongue
protruded several inches, and he presently rose, wiping his brow. The
Kroo boy took his place and the ceremony was repeated, after which the
two natives retired grinning with pride.

"Gad, Larkom," exclaimed Cook, when he came out and joined his host;
"that dose of fever has taken the starch out of you. You oughtn't to be
up, surely?" He looked earnestly at his comrade, shocked at the aspect of
the pitiful wreck before him and a little alarmed at the strange,
greenish-yellow tint that showed through the waxen pallor of the face.

"Shan't be up long, dear boy," said Larkom. "Just setting things straight
before I turn in for good. Now, just cast your eye over this document--
devil of a scrawl, but I expect you can make it out." He took up a sheet
of paper and handed it to Cook. The writing was so tremulous as to be
almost illegible, but with difficulty Cook deciphered it; and its purport
filled him with astonishment. It read thus: "This is the last will and
testament of me John Larkom of Adaffia in the Gold Coast Colony, West
Africa. I give and devise all my estate and effects, real and personal,
which I may die possessed of or be entitled to, unto James Cook
absolutely, and I appoint him the executor of this my will.

"Dated this thirteenth day of November one thou- sand eight hundred and
ninety-seven.

"Signed by the testator in the presence of us, who thereupon made our
marks in his and each other's presence.

JOHN LARKOM.

Kwaku Mensah of Cape Coast. His + mark

Pea Soup of Half-Jack. His + mark."

"I've given you your new name, you see," Larkom explained. "Take charge
of this precious document and keep that letter from the firm. Burn all
other papers."

"But," exclaimed Cook, "why are you talking as if you expected to snuff
out? You've had fever before, I suppose?"	-

"Rather," said Larkom. "But you're a new-corner; you don't sabby. I'm an
old coaster, and I sabby pro per. Look at that, dear boy. Do you know
what that means?" He held out a shaking, lemon-coloured hand, and as his
companion regarded it silently, he continued:

"That means blackwater fever; and when a Johnny like me goes in for that
luxury, it's a job for the gardener. And talking of that, you'd better
plant me in the far corner of the compound where the empty casks are
kept, by the prickly-pear hedge; I shall be out of the way of traffic
there, though graves are a damned nuisance in business premises, anyhow."

"Oh, dry up, Larkom, and get to bed," growled Cook; "and, I say, aren't
there any doctors in this accursed place?

Larkom grinned. "In the fossil state, dear boy, they are quite numerous.
Otherwise scarce. The medico up at Quittah died three days ago, as I told
you, and there are no others on tap just now. No good to me if they were.
Remember what I've told you. Burn all papers and, when you've planted me,
take over the factory and make things hum. There's a living to be made
here and you'll make it. Leave the swizzle-stick alone, old chappie, and
if ever you should chance to meet Hepburn again, give him my love and
kick him--kick him hard. Now I'm going to turn in."

Larkom's forecast of the probable course of his illness bid fair to turn
out correct. In the intervals of business--which, perversely enough, was
unusually brisk on this day – Cook looked in on the invalid and at each
visit found him visibly changed for the worse. The pale-lemon tint of his
skin gave place to a horrible dusky yellow; his voice grew weaker and his
mind more clouded, until at last he sank into a partial stupor from which
it was almost impossible to rouse him. He wanted nothing, save an
occasional sip of water, and nothing could be done to stay the march of
the fell disease.

So the day passed on, a day of miserable suspense for Cook; the little
caravans filed into the compound, the kernels and copra and knobs of
rubber rolled out of the calabashes on to the ground, the oil gurgled
softly into the puncheon, the bush people chattered vivaciously in the
store and presently departed gleefully with their purchases; and still
Larkom lay silent and apathetic and ever drawing nearer to the frontier
between the known and the unknown. The evening fell, the store was locked
up, the compound gate was shut, and Cook betook himself with a shaded
lamp to sit by the sick man's bed.

But presently the sight of that yellow face, grown suddenly so strangely
small and pinched, the sharpened nose, and the sunken eyes with the
yellow gleam of the half-seen eyeballs between the lids, was more than he
could bear, and he stole softly through into the sitting- room, there to
continue his vigil. So hour after weary hour passed. The village sank to
rest (for it was a moonless night) and the sounds that came in through
the open window were those of beast and bird and insect. Bats whistled
out in the darkness, cicadas and crickets chirred and chirruped, the bark
of the genet and the snuffling mutter of prowling civets came from
without the compound, while far away the long-drawn, melancholy cry of a
hyena could be heard in the intervals of the booming surf.

And all the while the sick man slowly drew nearer to the dread frontier.

It wanted but an hour to dawn when a change came. The feeble babblings
and mumblings, the little snatches of forgotten songs chanted in a weak,
quavering treble, had ceased for some time, and now through the open door
came a new sound--the sound of slow breathing mingled with a soft, moist
rattling. The watcher rose from his chair and once again crept, lamp in
hand, into the dimly-lighted room, there to stand looking down gloomily
at the one friend that Fate had left him. Larkom was now unconscious and
lay quite still, save the heaving chest and the rise and fall of the chin
with each breath.

Cook took put down the lamp, and, sitting down, gently took the damp and
chilly hand in his, while he listened, in agony at his own helplessness,
to the monotonous, rattling murmur that went on and on, to and fro, like
the escapement of some horrible clock.

By and by it stopped, and Cook fumbled at the tepid wrist; then, after a
pause, it began again with an altered rhythm and presently paused again,
and again went on; and so the weary, harrowing minutes passed, the pauses
growing ever longer and the rattling murmur more and more shallow. At
last there came a pause so long that Cook leaned over the bed to listen.
A little whispering sigh was borne to his ear, then all was still; and
when, after waiting yet several minutes more, he had reverently drawn the
gaudy table-cloth over the silent figure, he went back to his chair in
the sitting room, there to wait, with grim face and lonely heart, for the
coming of the day.

The late afternoon sun was slanting eagerly over the palm-tops as he took
his way to the far corner of the compound that faced towards the western
beach. The empty barrels had been rolled away and, in the clear space,
close to the low prickly-pear hedge, a smooth mound of yellow sand and a
rough wooden cross marked the spot where Larkom, stitched up in sacking
in lieu of a coffin, had been laid to rest. The cross had occupied most
of Cook's scanty leisure since the hurried burial in the morning (for
trade was still perversely brisk, despite the ragged house-flag half-mast
on the little flag-pole), and he was now going to put the finishing
touches to it.

It was a rude enough memorial, the upright t from a board from one of the
long gun-crates, and the cross-piece formed by a new barrel stave cut to
the requisite length; and the lack of paint left it naked and staring.

Cook laid down on the sand a box containing his materials--a set of zinc
stencil plates, used for marking barrels and cases, a stencil brush, and
a pot of thin black paint--and sketched out lightly in pencil the words
of the inscription:

JOHN LARKOM 14th November 1897

Then he picked out a J from the set of stencil plates, dipped the brush
in the pot, and made the first letter, following it in order with O, H,
and N. Something in the look of the familiar name--his own name as well
as Larkom's--made him pause and gaze at it thoughtfully, and his air was
still meditative and abstracted as he stooped and picked up the L to
commence the following word. Rising with the fresh plate in his hand, he
happened to glance over the low hedge along the stretch of beach that
meandered away to a distant, palm-clad headland; and then he noticed for
the first time a little group of figures that stood out sharply against
the yellow background. They were about half a mile distant and were
evidently coming towards the village; and there was something in their
appearance that caused him to examine them narrowly. Four of the figures
walked together and carried some large object that he guessed to be a
travelling hammock; four others straggled some little distance behind;
and yet three more, who walked ahead of the hammock, seemed to carry guns
or rifles on their shoulders.

Still holding the plate and brush, Cook stood motionless, watching with
grim attention the approach of the little procession. On it came, at a
rapid pace, each step bringing it more clearly into view. The hammock was
now quite distinct and the passenger could be seen lying in the sagging
cloth; eight of the figures were evidently ordinary natives while the
other three were plainly black men dressed in a blue uniform, wearing red
caps and carrying rifles and bayonets.

Cook stooped and dropped the plate back into the box, picking out, in
place of it, a plate pierced with the letter O. Dipping his brush into
the paint, he laid the plate over the pencilled L on the cross and
brushed in the letter. Quietly and without hurry, he followed the O with
an S, M, O, N, and D; and he had just finished the last letter when an
English voice hailed him from over the hedge.

He turned and saw, a little distance away, a fresh- laced Englishman in a
quiet undress uniform and a cheese-cutter cap, peering at him curiously
from the top a sand-hill, at the base of which stood the group of
hammockmen and the three Hausas.

"There's a gate farther down," said Cook; and, as the officer turned
away, he dropped the plate that he was holding back into the box, laid
down the brush, and took up a camel's-hair pencil. Dipping this into the
paint-pot, he proceeded deliberately and with no little skill to write
the date in small letters under the name. Presently the sound of
footsteps was audible from behind. Cook continued his writing with
deliberate care and the footsteps drew nearer, slowing as they
approached. Close behind him they halted, and a cheery voice exclaimed:
"Good Lord! What a let-off!" and then added,

"Poor beggar! When did he die?"

"This morning, just before dawn," replied Cook.

"Phew!" whistled the officer. "He wasn't long getting his ticket. But, I
say, how did you know his name? I thought he called himself Walker."

"So he did. But he wished his name to be put on his grave."

"Naturally," said the officer. "It's no use giving an alias at the last
muster. Well, poor devil! He's had rough luck, but perhaps it's best,
after all. It's certainly best for me."

"Why for you?" asked Cook.

"Because I've got a warrant in my pocket to arrest him for some trouble
at home--signed the wrong cheque or something of that kind--and I
wasn't very sweet on the job, as you may guess. Blood's thicker than
water, you know, and the poor chap was an English gentleman after all.
However, those black devils of mine don't know what I have come for, so
now nothing need be said."

"No." He looked round into the bluff, rosy face and clear blue eyes of
the officer and asked: "How did you manage to run him to earth?"

"He was traced to Bristol and to the barque Sappho after she had sailed.
Then the Sappho was seen from Quittah to bring up here, right off her
station--she trades to Half-Jack--and, as we were on the look-out, we
made inquiries and found that a white man had come ashore here. Good
thing we didn't find out sooner. Well, I'll be getting back to Quittah.
I've just come down with a new doctor to take over there. My name's
Cockeram, assistant inspector G.C.C. You're Mr. Larkom, I suppose?"

"Won't you stop and have a cocktail?" asked Cook, ignoring the question.

"No, thanks. Don't take 'em. H2O is the drink for this country."

He touched his cap and sauntered to the gate, and Cook saw him walk
slowly up and down behind the hedge, apparently gathering something.
Presently he sauntered back into the compound looking a little sheepish,
and, as he came, twisting some blossoming twigs of wild cotton into a
kind of grommet and shelling the little "prayer-beads" out of some
Jequirity pods that he had gathered. He walked up the sandy mound and,
sprinkling the scarlet seeds n the form of a cross, laid the loop of
cotton-blossoms above it.

"It's a scurvy wreath," he said, gruffly, without looking at Cook, "but
it's a scurvy country. So long." He walked briskly out of the compound
and, flinging himself into the hammock, gave the word to march.

The other looked after him with an unwonted softening of the grim face--
yet grimmer and more lean now that the beard was gone--only resuming his
writing when the little procession was growing small in the distance. The
date was completed now, but, dipping his brush afresh, he wrote below in
still smaller letters: 'Now shall I sleep in the dust; and thou shalt
seek me in the morning, but I shall not be.,

Then he picked up the box and went back into the house.

III. THE MUTINY ON THE "SPEEDWELL"

For a man in search of quiet and retirement, the village of Adaffia would
seem to be an ideally eligible spot; especially if the man in question
should happen be under a rather heavy cloud. Situated in a little known
part of the Slave Coast, many miles distant from any town or settlement
where white men had their abodes, it offered a haven of security to the
Ishmaelite if it offered little else.

Thus reflected John Osmond, late John Walker, and now "Mr. James Cook,"
if the need for a surname should arise. But hitherto it had not arisen;
for, to the natives, he was simply "the white man" or "mastah," and no
other European had passed along the coast since the day on which he had
buried Larkom--and his own identity – and entered into his inheritance.

He reviewed the short interval with its tale of eventless and monotonous
days as he sat smoking a thoughtful pipe in the shady coco-nut grove that
encompassed the hamlet, letting his thoughts travel back anon to a more
distant and eventful past, and all the while keeping an attentive eye on
a shabby-looking brigantine that was creeping up from the south. It was
not, perhaps, a very thrilling spectacle, but yet Osmond watched the
approaching vessel with lively interest. For though, on that deserted
coast, ships may be seen to pass up and down on the rim of the horizon,
two or three, perhaps, in a month, this was the first vessel that had
headed for the land since the day on which he had become the owner of the
factory and the sole representative of European civilization in Adaffia.
It was natural, then, that he should watch her with interest and
curiosity, not only as a visitor from the world which he had left, but as
one with which he was personally concerned; for if her people had
business ashore, that business was pretty certainly with him.

At a distance of about a mile and a half from the shore the brigantine
luffed up, fired a gun, hoisted a dirty red ensign, let go her anchor,
scandalized her mainsail, lowered her head-sails, and roughly dewed up
the square-sails. A fishing canoe, which had paddled out to meet her, ran
alongside and presently returned shoreward with a couple of white men on
board. And still Osmond made no move. Business considerations should have
led him to go down to the beach and meet the white men, since they were
almost certainly bound for his factory; but other considerations
restrained him. The fewer white men that he met, the safer he would be:
for, to the Ishmaelite, every stranger is a possible enemy or, worse
still, a possible acquaintance. And then, although he felt no distaste
for the ordinary trade with the natives, he did not much fancy himself
standing behind a counter selling gin and tobacco to a party of British
shell-backs. So he loitered under the coconuts and determined to leave
the business transactions to his native assistant, Kwaku Mensah.

The canoe landed safely through the surf; the two white men stepped
ashore and disappeared towards the village. Osmond refilled his pipe and
walked a little farther away. Presently a file of natives appeared moving
towards the shore, each carrying on his head a green-painted gin-case.
Osmond counted them--there were six in all--and watched them stow the
cases in the canoe. Then, suddenly, the two white men appeared, running
furiously. They made straight for the canoe and jumped in; the canoe men
pushed off and the little craft began to wriggle its way cautiously
through the surf. And at this moment another figure made its appearance
on the beach and began to make unmistakable demonstrations of hostility
to the receding canoe.

Now, a man who wears a scarlet flannelette coat, green cotton trousers,
yellow carpet slippers, and a gold-laced smoking-cap is not difficult to
identify even atsome little distance. Osmond instantly recognized his
assistant and strode away to make inquiries.

There was no need to ask what was the matter. As Osmond crossed the
stretch of blown sand that lay between the palm-grove and the beach, his
retainer came running towards him, flourishing his arms wildly and fairly
gibbering with excitement.

"Dem sailor man, sah!" he gasped, when he had come within earshot, "he
dam tief, sah! He tief six case gin!"

"Do you mean that those fellows didn't pay for that gin?" Osmond
demanded.

"No, sah. No pay nutting. Dey send de case down for beach and dey tell me
find some country cloth. I go into store to look dem cloth, den dey run
away for deir canoe. Dey no pay nutting."

"Very well, Mensah. We'll go on board and collect the money or bring back
the gin. Can you get a canoe?"

"All canoe go out fishing excepting dat one," said Mensah.

"Then we must wait for that one to come back," was the reply; and Osmond
seated himself on the edge of dry sand that overhung the beach and fixed
a steady gaze on the dwindling canoe. Mensah sat down likewise and
glanced dubiously at his grim-faced employer; but whatever doubts he had
as to the wisdom of the proposed expedition, he kept them to himself. For
John Osmond--like Father O'Flynn--had a "wonderful way with him"; a way
that induced unruly intruders to leave the compound hurriedly and rub
themselves a good deal when they got outside. So Mensah kept his own
counsel.

The canoe ran alongside the brigantine, and, having discharged its
passengers and freight, put off for its return shorewards. Then a new
phase in the proceedings began. The brigantine's head-sails, which lay
loose on the jib-boom, began to slide up the stays; the untidy bunches of
canvas aloft began to flatten out to the pull of the sheets. The
brigantine, in fact, was preparing to get under way. But it was all done
in a very leisurely fashion; so deliberately that the last of the
square-sails was barely sheeted home when the canoe grounded on the
beach.

Osmond wasted no time. While Mensah was giving the necessary
explanations, he set his shoulder to the peak of the canoe and shoved her
round head to sea, regardless of the cloud of spray that burst over him.

The canoe-men were nothing loath, for the African is keenly appreciative
of a humorous situation. Moreover, they had some experience of the white
man's peculiar methods of persuasion and felt a natural desire to see
them exercised on persons of his own colour--especially as those persons
had been none too civil. Accordingly they pushed off gleefully and
plunged once more into the breakers, digging their massive,
trident-shaped paddles into the water to the accompaniment of those
uncanny hisses, groans, and snatches of song with which the African
canoe-man sweetens his labour.

Meanwhile their passenger sat in the bow of the canoe, wiping the sea
water from his face and fixing a baleful glance on the brigantine, as she
wallowed drunkenly on the heavy swell. Slowly the tack of the mainsail
descended, and then, to a series of squeaks from the halyard-blocks, the
peak of the sail rose by stow jerks. The canoe bounded forward over the
great rollers, the hull of the vessel rose and began to loom large above
the waters, and Osmond had just read the name "Speedwell, Bristol" on her
broad counter, when his ear caught a new sound--the "clink, clink" of
the windlass-pawl. The anchor was being hove up.

But the canoe-men had heard the sound, too, and, with a loud groan, dug
their paddles into the water with furious energy The canoe shot forward
under the swaying counter and swept alongside, the brigantine rolled over
as if she would annihilate the little craft, and Osmond, grasping a
chain-plate, swung himself up into the channel, whence he climbed to the
bulwark rail and dropped down on the deck.

The windlass was manned by six of the crew, who bobbed up and down slowly
at the ends of the long levers; a seventh man was seated on the deck,
with one of the gin cases open before him, in the act of uncorking a
bottle. The other five cases were ranged along by the bulwark.

"Good afternoon," said Osmond, whose arrival had been unnoticed by the
preoccupied crew; "you forgot to pay for that gin."

The seated man looked up with a start, first at Osmond and then at
Mensah, who now sat astride the rail in a strategic position that
admitted of advance or retreat as circumstances might suggest. The clink
of the windlass ceased, and the six men came sauntering aft with
expectant grins.

"What are you doin' aboard this ship?" demanded the first man.

"I've come to collect my dues," replied Osmond.

"Have yer?" said the sailor. "You'll be the factory bug, I reckon?"

"I'm the owner of that gin."

"Now that's where you make a mistake, young feller. I'm the owner of this
here gin."

"Then you've got to pay me one pound four."

The sailor set the bottle down on the deck and rose to his feet.

"Look here, young feller," said he, "I'm goin' to give you a valuable tip
--gratis. You git overboard. Sharp. D'ye hear?"

"I want one pound four," said Osmond, in a misleadingly quiet tone.

"Pitch 'im overboard, Dhoody," one of the other sailors counselled. "Send
'im for a swim, mate."

"I'm a-goin' to," said Dhoody, "if he don't clear out."; and he began to
advance, crabwise, across the deck in the manner of a wrestler attacking.

Osmond stood motionless in a characteristic attitude, with his long legs
wide apart, his hands clasped behind him, his gaunt shoulders hunched up,
and his chin thrust forward, swaying regularly to the heave of the deck,
and with his grim, hatchet face turned impassively towards his adversary,
presented a decidedly uninviting aspect. Perhaps Dhoody appreciated this
fact; at any rate, he advanced with an ostentatious show of strategy and
much intimidating air-clawing. But he made a bad choice of the moment for
the actual attack, for he elected to rush in just as the farther side of
the deck was rising. In an instant Osmond's statuesque immobility changed
to bewilderingly rapid movement. There was a resounding "Smack, smack";
Dhoody flew backwards, capsizing two men behind him, staggered down the
sloping deck, closely followed by Osmond (executing a continuous series
of "postman's knocks" on the Dhoodian countenance), and finally fell
sprawling in the scuppers, with his head jammed against a stanchion. The
two capsized men scrambled to their feet, and, with their four comrades,
closed in on Osmond with evidently hostile intentions. But the latter did
not wait to be attacked. Acting on the advice of the Duke of Wellington –
whom, by the way, he somewhat resembled in appearance--to "hit first and
keep on hitting," he charged the group of seamen like an extremely
self-possessed bull, hammering right and left, regardless of the
unskilful thumps that he got in return, and gradually drove them,
bewildered by his extraordinary quickness and the weight of his
well-directed blows, through the space between the fore mast and the
bulwark. Slowly they backed away before his continuous battering, hitting
out at him ineffectively, hampered by their numbers and the con fined
space, until one man, who had had the bad luck to catch two upper cuts in
succession, uttered a howl of rage and whipped out his sheath-knife.
Osmond's quick eye caught the dull glint of the steel just as he was
passing the fife-rail. Instantly he whisked out an unoccupied iron
belaying-pin, whirled it over and brought it down on the man's head. The
fellow dropped like a pole-axed ox, and as the belaying-pin rose aloft
once more, the other five men sprang back out of range.

How the combat might have ended under other circumstances it is
impossible to say. Dhoody had disappeared--with a bloody scalp and an
obliterated eye; the man with the knife lay unconscious on the deck with
a little red pool collecting by his head; the other five men had
scattered and were hastily searching for weapons and missiles, so far as
was possible with this bloodthirsty Bedlamite of a "factory bug" flying
up and down the deck flourishing a belaying-pin. Their principal
occupation, in fact, was in keeping out of reach; and they did not always
succeed.

Suddenly a shot rang out. A little cloud of splinters flew from the side
of the mainmast, and the five seamen ducked simultaneously. Glancing
quickly forward, Osmond beheld his late antagonist, Dhoody, emerging from
the forecastle hatch and taking aim at him with a still smoking revolver.
Now, the "factory bug" was a pugnacious man and perhaps over-confident,
too. But he had some idea of his limitations. You can't walk up twenty
yards of deck to punch the head of a man who is covering you with a
revolver. At the moment, Osmond was abreast of the uncovered main hatch.
A passing glance had shown him a tier of kernel bags covering the floor
of the hold. Without a moment's hesitation he stooped with his hands on
the coaming, and, vaulting over, dropped plump on the bags, and then,
picking himself up, scrambled forward under the shelter of the deck.

The hold of the Speedwell, like that of most vessels of her class, was a
simple cavity, extending from the forecastle bulkhead to that of the
after-cabin. Of this the forward part still contained a portion of the
out ward cargo, while the homeward lading was stowed abaft the main
hatch. But the hold was two-thirds empty and afforded plenty of room to
move about.

Osmond took up a position behind some bales of Manchester goods and
waited for the next move on the part of the enemy. He had not long to
wait. Voices from above told him that the crew had gathered round the
hatch; indeed, from his retreat, he could see some of them craning over
the coamings, peering into the dark recesses of the hold.

"What are yer goin' to do, Dhoody?" one of the men asked.

"I'm goin' below to finish the beggar off," was the reply in a tone of
savage determination.

The place of a ladder was supplied by wooden footholds nailed to the
massive stanchion that supported the deck and rested on the kelson.
Osmond kept a sharp eye on the top foothold, clambering quickly on the
closely packed bales to get within reach; and as a booted foot appeared
below the beam and settled on the projection, he brought down his
belaying-pin on the toe with a rap that elicited a yell of agony and
caused the hasty withdrawal of the foot. For a minute or more the air was
thick with execrations, and, as Osmond crept back into shelter, an
irregular stamping on the deck above suggested some person hopping
actively on one leg.

But the retreat was not premature. Hardly had Osmond squeezed himself
behind the stack of bales when a succession of shots rang out from above,
and bullet after bullet embedded itself in the rolls of cotton cloth.
Osmond counted five shots and when there came n interval--presumably to
reload--he ventured to peer between the bales, and was able to see
Dhoody frantically emptying the discharged chambers of the revolver and
ramming in fresh cartridges, while the five sailors stared curiously into
the hold.

"Now then," said Dhoody, when he had re-loaded, "you just nip down, Sam
Winter, and see if I've hit him, and I'll stand by here to shoot if he
goes for yer."

"Not me," replied Sam. "You 'and me the gun and just pop down yerself.
I'll see as he don't hurt yer."

"How can I?" roared Dhoody, "with me fut hammered into a jelly?"

"Well," retorted Sam, "what about my feet? D'ye think I can fly?"

"Oh," said Dhoody, contemptuously, "if you funk the job, I won't press
yer. Bob Simmons ain't afraid, I know. He'll go."

"Will he?" said Simmons. "I'm jiggered if he will! That bloke's too handy
with that pin for my taste. But I'll hold the gun while you go, Dhoody."

Dhoody cursed the whole ship's company collectively and individually for
a pack of chicken-livered curs. But not one of them would budge. Each was
quite willing, and even eager, to do the shooting from above; but no one
was disposed to go below and "draw the badger." The proceedings seemed to
have come to a deadlock when one of the sailors was inspired with a new
idea.

"Look 'ere, mates," he said, oracularly; " 'Tis like this 'ere: 'ere's
this 'ere bloomin' ship with a nomicidal maniac in 'er 'old. Now, none of
us ain't a-goin' down there for to fetch 'im out. We don't want our 'eds
broke same as what 'e's broke Jim Darker's 'ed. Contrarywise, so long as
'e's loose on this ship, no man's life ain't worth a brass farden.
Wherefore I says, bottle 'im up, I says; clap on the hatch-covers and
batten down. Then we've got 'im, and then we can sleep in our bunks in
peace."

"That's right enough, Bill," another voice broke in, "but you're
forgettin' that we've got a little job to do down below there."

"Not yet, we ain't," the other rejoined; "not afore we gets down Ambriz
way, and he'll be quiet enough by then."

This seemed to satisfy all parties, including even the ferocious Dhoody,
and a general movement warned Osmond that his incarceration was imminent,
For one moment he was disposed to make a last, desperate sortie, but the
certainty that he would be a dead man before he reached the deck decided
him to lie low. Many things might happen before the brigantine reached
Ambriz.

As the hatchcovers grated over the coaming and dropped into their beds,
the prisoner took a rapid survey of his surroundings before the last
glimmer of daylight should be shut out. But he had scarcely time to
memorize the geographical features of the hold before the last of the
hatch-covers was dropped into its place. Then he heard the tarpaulin drag
over the hatch, shutting out the last gleams of light that had filtered
through the joints of the covers; the battens were dropped into their
catches, the wedges driven home, and he sat, in a darkness like that of
the tomb.

The hold was intolerably hot and close. The roasting deck above was like
the roof of an oven. A greasy reek arose from the bags of kernels, a
strange, mixed effluvium from the bales of cotton cloth. And the place
was full of strange noises. At every roll of the ship, as the strain of
the rigging changed sides, a universal groan arose; bulkheads squeaked,
timbers grated, the masts creaked noisily in their housings, and unctuous
gurgles issued from the tier of oil puncheons. It was clear to Osmond
that this was no place for a prolonged residence. The sweat that already
trickled down his face meant thirst in the near future, and death if he
failed to discover the tank or water-casks. A diet of palm kernels did
not commend itself; and, now that the hatch was covered, the water in the
bilge made its peculiar properties manifest. The obvious necessity was to
get out; but the method of escape was not obvious at all.

From his own position Osmond's thoughts turned to the state of the
vessel. From the first, it had been evident to him that there was
something very abnormal about this ship. Apart from the lawless behaviour
of the crew, there was the fact that since he had come on board he had
seen no vestige of an officer. Dhoody had seemed to have some sort of
authority, hut the manner in which the men addressed him showed that he
had no superior status. Then, where was the "afterguard?" They had not
gone ashore. And there had been enough uproar to bring them on deck if
they had been on board. There was only one reasonable conclusion from
these facts, and it was confirmed by Dhoody's proprietary air and by a
certain brown stain that Osmond had noticed on the deck. There had been a
mutiny on the Speedwell.

The inveterate smoker invokes the aid of tobacco in all cases where
concentrated thought is required. Osmond made shift to fill his pipe in
the dark, and, noting that his tobacco was low, struck a match. The flame
lighted up the corner into which he had crept and rendered visible some
objects that he had not noticed before; and, at the first glance, any
lingering uncertainty as to the state of affairs on the Speedwell
vanished in an instant. For the objects that he had seen comprised a
shipwright's auger, a caulking mallet, and a dozen or more large wooden
pegs cut to a taper at one end.

The purpose of these appliances was unmistakable, and very clearly
explained the nature of the "little job" that the sailors had to do down
below. Those rascals intended to scuttle the ship. Holes were to be bored
in the bottom with the auger and the plugs driven into them. Then, when
the mutineers were ready to leave, the plugs would be pulled out, and the
ship abandoned with the water pouring into her hold. It was a pretty
scheme, if not a novel one, and it again suggested the question: Where
were the officers?

Turning over this question, Osmond remembered that Dhoody had gone to the
forecastle to fetch his revolver. Then the crew would appear to be still
occupying their own quarters; whence it followed that, if the officers
were on board, they were probably secured in their berths aft.

This consideration suggested a new idea. Osmond lit another match and
explored the immediate neighbourhood in the hope of finding more tools;
but there were only the auger and the mallet, the pegs having probably
been tapered with a sheath-knife. As the match went out, Osmond quenched
the glowing tip, and, picking up the auger and mallet, though for the
latter he had no present use, began to grope his way aft. The part of the
hold abaft the main hatch had a ground tier of oil-puncheons, above which
was stowed a quantity of produce, principally copra and kernels in bags.
Climbing on top of this, Osmond crawled aft until he brought up against
the bulkhead that separated the cabin from the hold. Here he commenced
operations without delay. Rapping with his knuckles to make sure of the
absence of obstructing stanchions, he set the point of the auger against
the bulkhead, and, grasping the cross lever, fell to work vigorously. It
was a big tool, boring an inch and a half hole, and correspondingly heavy
to turn; but Osmond drove it with a will, and was soon rewarded by
feeling it give with a jerk, and when he withdrew it, there was a
circular hole through which streamed the welcome daylight.

He applied his eye to the hole (which, in spite of the thickness of the
planking, afforded a fairly wide view) and looked into what was evidently
the cuddy or cabin. He could see a small, nearly triangular table fitted
with "fiddles," or safety rims, between which a big water-bottle slid
backwards and forwards as the ship rolled, pursued by a dozen or more
green limes and an empty tumbler--a sight which made his mouth water.
Opposite was the companion-ladder and at each side of it a door--
probably those of the captain's and mate's cabins. Above the table would
be the sky light, though he could not see it; but he could make out some
pieces of broken glass on the floor and one or two on the table; and he
now recalled that he had noticed, when on deck, that the skylight glass
was smashed.

Having made this survey, he returned to his task. Above the hole that he
had bored, he proceeded to bore another, slightly intersecting it, and
above this another, and so on; tracing a continuous curved row of holes,
each hole encroaching a little on the next, and the entire series
looking, from the dark hold, like a luminous silhouette of a string of
beads. It was arduous work, and monotonous, but Osmond kept at it with
only an occasional pause to wipe his streaming face and steal a wistful
look at the water-bottle on the cabin table. No sign did he perceive
there of either officers or crew; indeed the latter were busy on deck,
for he had heard the clink of the windlass, and when that had ceased, the
rattle of running gear as the sails were trimmed. And meanwhile the
curved line of holes extended along the bulkhead and began to define an
ellipse some eighteen inches by twelve.

By the time he had made the twenty-fourth hole, a sudden weakening of the
light that came through informed him that the sun was setting. He took a
last peep into the cabin before the brief tropic twilight should have
faded, and was surprised to note that the tumbler seemed to have vanished
and that there appeared to be less water in the bottle. Speculating
vaguely on the possible explanation of this, he fell to work again,
adding hole after hole to the series, guiding himself by the sense of
touch when the light failed completely.

The thirty_eighth hole nearly completed the ellipse, and was within an
inch of the first one bored. Standing back from the bulkhead, Osmond gave
a vigorous kick on the space enclosed by the line of holes, and sent the
oval piece of planking flying through into the cabin. Passing his head
through the opening, he listened awhile. Sounds of revelry from the deck,
now plainly audible, told him that the gin was doing its work and that
the crew were fully occupied. He slipped easily through the opening, and,
groping his way to the table, found the water-bottle and refreshed
himself with a long and delicious draught. Then, feeling his way to the
companion-ladders he knocked with his knuckles on the door at its port
side.

No one answered; and yet he had a feeling of some soft and stealthy
movement within. Accordingly he knocked again, a little more sharply, and
as there was still no answer, he turned the handle and pushed gently at
the door, which was, however, bolted or locked. But the effort was not in
vain, for as he gave a second, harder push, a woman's voice--which
sounded quite near, as if the speaker were close to the door--demanded
"Who is there?"

Considerably taken aback by the discovery of this unexpected denizen of
the mutiny-ridden ship, Osmond was for a few moments at a loss for a
reply. At length, putting his mouth near to the keyhole (for the skylight
was open and the steersman, at least, not far away), he answered softly:
"A friend."

The reply did not appear to have the desired effect, for the woman--also
speaking into the keyhole--demanded sharply:

"But who are you? And what do you want?"

These were difficult questions. Addressing himself to the first, and
boggling awkwardly at the unaccustomed lie, Osmond stammered:

"My name is--er--is Cook, but you don't know me. I am not one of the
crew. If you wouldn't mind opening the door, I could explain matters."

"I shall do nothing of the kind," was the reply.

"There's really no occasion for you to be afraid," Osmond urged.

"Isn't there?" she retorted. "And who said I was afraid? Let me tell you
that I've got a pistol, and I shall shoot if I have any of your nonsense.
So you'd better be off."

Osmond grinned appreciatively but decided to abandon the parley.

"Is there anyone aft here besides you?" he asked.

"Never you mind," was the tart reply. "You had better go back where you
came from."

Osmond rose with a grim smile and began cautiously to feel his way
towards the companion-steps and past them to the other door that he had
seen. Having found it and located the handle, he rapped sharply but not
too loudly.

"Well?" demanded a gruff voice from within.

Osmond turned the handle, and, as a stream of light issued from the
opening door, he entered hastily and closed it behind him. He found
himself in a small cabin lighted by a candle-lamp that swung in gimballs
from the bulkhead. One side was occupied by a bunk in which reclined a
small, elderly man, who appeared to have been reading, f or he held an
open volume, which Osmond observed with some surprise to be Applin's
Commentary On the Book of Job. His head was roughly bandaged and he wore
his left arm in a primitive sling.

"Well," he repeated, taking off his spectacles to look at Osmond.

"You are the captain, I presume?" said Osmond. "Yes. Name of Hartup. Who
are you?"

Osmond briefly explained the circumstances of his arrival on board.

"Ah!" said the captain. "1 wondered who was boring those holes when I
went into the cabin just now. Well, you've put your head into a hornet's
nest, young man."

"Yes," said Osmond "and I'm going to keep it there until I'm paid to take
it out."

The captain smiled sourly. "You are like my mate, Will Redford; very like
him you are to look at, and the same quarrelsome disposition,
apparently."

"Where is the mate now?"

"Overboard," replied the captain. "He got flourishing a revolver and the
second mate stabbed him."

"Is the second mate's name Dhoody?"

"Yes. But he's only a substitute. The proper second mate died up at
Sherbro, so I promoted Dhoody from before the mast."

"I take it that your crew have mutinied?"

"Yes," said the captain, placidly. "There is over a ton of ivory on board
and two hundred ounces of gold dust in that chest that you are sitting
on. It was a great temptation. Dhoody began it and Redford made it worse
by bullying."

"Dhoody seems to be a tough customer."

"Very," said the captain. "A violent man. A man of wrath. I am surprised
that he didn't make an end of you."

"So is he, I expect," Osmond replied with a grin; "and I hope to give him
one or two more surprises before we part. What are you going to do?"

The captain sighed. "We are in the hands of Providence," said he.

"You'll be in the hands of Davy Jones if you don't look out," said
Osmond. "They are going to scuttle the ship when they get to Ambriz. Can
I get anything to eat?"

"There is corned pork and biscuit in that locker," said the captain "and
water and limes on the cabin table. No intoxicants. This is a temperance
ship."

Osmond smiled grimly as a wild chorus from above burst out as if in
commentary on the captain's statement. But he made no remark. Corned pork
was better than discussion just now.

"You seem to have been in the wars," he remarked, glancing at the
skipper's bandaged head and arm.

"Yes. Fell down the companion; at least, Dhoody shoved me down. I'll get
you to fix a new dressing on my arm when you've finished eating. You'll
find some lint and rubber plaster in the medicine chest there."

"By the way," said Osmond, as he cracked a biscuit on his knee, "there's
a woman in the next berth. Sounded like quite a ladylike person, too. Who
is she?

The captain shook his head. "Yes," he groaned, "there's another
complication. She is a Miss Burleigh; daughter of Sir Hector Burleigh,
the Administrator or Acting Governor, or something of the sort, of the
Gold Coast."

"But what the deuce is she doing on an old rattle trap of a windjammer
like this?"

The captain sat up with a jerk. "I'll trouble you, young man," he said,
severely, "to express yourself with more decorum. I am the owner of this
vessel, and if she is good enough for me she will have to be good enough
for you. Nobody asked you to come aboard, you know."

"I beg your pardon," said Osmond. "Didn't mean to give offence. But
you'll admit that she isn't cut out for the high-class passenger trade."

"She is not," Captain Hartup agreed, "and that is what I pointed out to
the young woman when she asked for a passage from Axim to Accra. I told
her we had no accommodation for females, but she just giggled and said
that didn't matter. She is a very self- willed young woman."

"But why didn't she take a passage on a steamer?"

"There was no steamer due for the Leeward Coast. Her father, Sir Hector,
tried to put her off; but she would have her own way. Said it would be a
bit of an adventure; travelling on a sailing ship."

"Gad! She was right there," remarked Osmond.

"She was, indeed. Well, she came aboard and Redford gave her his berth,
he moving into the second mate's berth, as Dhoody remained in the
forecastle. And there she is; and I wish she was at Jericho."

"I expect she does, too. What happened to her when the mutiny broke out?"

"I told her to go to her berth and lock herself in. But no one attempted
to molest her."

"I am glad to hear that," said Osmond, and as he broke another biscuit,
he asked: "Did you secure the companion-hatch?"

"Miss Burleigh did. She fixed the bar across the inside of the doors. But
it wasn't necessary, for they had barricaded the doors outside. They
didn't want to come down to us, they only wanted to prevent us from going
up on deck."

"She was wise to bolt the doors, all the same," said Osmond; and for a
time there was silence in the cabin, broken only by the vigorous
mastication of stony biscuit.

IV. THE PHANTOM MATE

WHEN he had finished his rough and hasty meal, Osmond attended to his
host's injuries, securing a pad of lint on the lacerated arm with strips
cut from a broad roll of the sticky rubber plaster. Then he went out into
the cabin to reconnoitre and take a drink of water, closing the door of
the captain's berth so that the light should not be seen from above.

The hubbub on deck had now subsided into occasional snatches of
indistinct melody. The men had had a pretty long bout and were--to judge
by the tone of the songs--getting drowsy. Osmond climbed on to the table
and began carefully to pick the remainder of the glass out of the
skylight frame. The skylight had a fixed top--there being a separate
ventilator for the cabin – and, instead of the usual guard-bars, had
loose wood shutters for use in bad weather. Hence the present
catastrophe; and hence, when Osmond had picked away the remains of the
glass, there was a clear opening through which he could, by hoisting
himself up, thrust out his head and shoulders. To avoid this fatiguing
position, however, he descended and placed on the table a case that he
had noticed by daylight on a side-locker; then, mounting, he was able, by
standing on this, to look out at his ease, and yet pop down out of sight
if necessary.

When he cautiously thrust out his head to look up and down the deck, he
was able at first to see very little, though there was now a moderate
starlight. Forward, whence drowsy mumblings mingled with snores came from
the neighbourhood of the caboose, he could see only a projecting pair of
feet; and aft, where a single voice carolled huskily intervals, his view
was cut off by the boat--which lay at the side of the deck--and by the
hood of the companion-hatch. He craned out farther; and now he could
catch a glimpse of the man at the wheel. The fellow was not taking his
duties very seriously, for he was seated on the grating unhandily filling
his pipe and letting the ship steer herself; which she did well enough,
if direction was of no consequence, the light breeze being a couple of
points free and the main-sheet well slacked out. Osmond watched the man
light his pipe, recognizing then the flat, shaven face--which he had
punched earlier in the day--and as he watched he rapidly reviewed the
strategic position and considered its possibilities. The flat, shaven
face, with its wide mouth, offered a vague suggestion. He considered;
looked out again; listened awhile; and then descended with a distinctly
purposeful air. First he crept silently up the steps of the companion and
softly removed the bar from the inside of the doors. Then he made his way
to the skipper's cabin.

As he entered, the "old man" looked up from his book inquiringly.

"I've come down for a bit of rubber plaster," said Osmond.

The skipper nodded towards the medicine-chest and resumed his studies,
while Osmond cut off a strip of plaster some seven inches by four.

"You haven't got any thin rope or small-stuff in here, I suppose?" said
Osmond.

"There's a coil of rope-yarn on the peg under those oilskins – those
smart yellow ones; those were poor Redford's. He was too much of a dandy
to wear common black oilies like the rest of us. What do you want the
stuff for?"

"I want to try a little experiment," replied Osmond. "But I'll tell you
about it afterwards."; and he took down the oilskins and the coil of
line, the latter of which he carried away with him to the main cabin
together with the roll of plaster and the scissors. Here, by the faint
starlight that now mitigated the darkness, he cut off a couple of lengths
of the line and, having pocketed one and made a bowline-knot or fixed
loop in the end of the other, ascended the table and once more looked out
on deck. Save for some resonant snoring from forward, all was quiet and
the ship seemed to have settled down for the night. The helmsman,
however, was till awake, for Osmond heard him yawn wearily; but he had
left the wheel with a rope hitched round one of the spokes, and was now
leaning over the quarter-rail, apparently contemplating the passing
water.

It was an ideal opportunity. Grasping the frame of the skylight, Osmond
gave a light spring and came through the opening like a very stealthy
harlequin. Then, creeping along the deck in the shelter of the boat and
that of the companion-hood, he rose and stole noiselessly on the toes of
his rubber-soled shoes to wards the preoccupied seaman. Nearer and nearer
he crept, grasping an end of the line between the fingers of either hand,
and holding the strip of plaster spread out on the palm of the left,
until he stood close behind his quarry. Then, as the sailor removed his
pipe to emit another enormous yawn, he slipped his left hand round,
clapped the plaster over the open mouth, and instantly pinioned the man's
arms by clasping him tightly round the chest. The fellow struggled
furiously and would have shouted, but was only able to utter muffled
grunts and snorts through his nose. His arms were gripped to his sides as
if in a vice and his efforts to kick were all foreseen and adroitly
frustrated. He had been taken by surprise by a man who was his superior
in mere strength and who was an expert wrestler into the bargain; and he
was further handicapped by superstitious terror and lack of breath.

The struggle went on with surprisingly little noise--since the sailor
could not cry out--and meanwhile Osmond contrived to pass the end of the
line through the loop of the bowline and draw it inch by inch until it
was ready for the final pull. Then, with a skilful throw, he let the man
down softly, face downwards, on the deck; jerked the line tight and sat
on his prisoner's legs. He was now master of the situation. Taking
another turn with the line round the man's body, he secured it with a
knot in the middle of the back, and with the other length of line, which
he had in his pocket, he lashed his captive's ankles together.

The almost noiseless struggle had passed unnoticed by the sleepers
forward. No watch or look-out had been set and it had apparently been
left to the helmsman to rouse up his relief when he guessed his "trick"
at the wheel to have expired. Osmond listened for a few moments, and
then, removing the batten with which the doors of the companion had been
secured on the outside, opened the hatch, slid his helpless prisoner down
the ladder; closed the doors again, replaced the batten, and, creeping
through the opening of the sky light, let himself down into the cabin.
Here he seized his writhing captive, and, dragging him across the cabin,
thrust him head-first through the hole in the bulkhead and followed him
into the hold, where he finally deposited him as comfortably as possible
on the kernel bags under the main hatch.

"Now, listen," he said, sternly. "I'm going to take that plaster off your
mouth; but if you utter a sound, I shall stick it on again and fix it
with a lashing." He peeled the plaster off, and, as the man drew a long
breath, he demanded: "Do you hear what I say?

"Yes," was the reply; "I hear. You've got me, governor, fair on the hop,
you have. You won't hear no more of me. And if you can cop that there
Dhoody the same way, there won't be no more trouble on this ship."

"I'll see what can be done," said Osmond; and with this he returned into
the cabin, and, cutting off two fresh lengths of rope-yarn and another
piece of plaster, prepared for a fresh capture.

But, at present, there was no one to capture. The wheel jerked to and fro
in its lashing, the brigantine walloped along quietly before the soft
breeze, the crew slumbered peacefully forward, and Osmond looked out of
the skylight on an empty deck, listening impatiently to the chorus of
snores and wondering if he would get another chance.

It is impossible to say how long this state of affairs would have lasted
if nothing had happened to disturb it. As it was, a sudden accident
dispelled the universal repose. The unsteered vessel, yawing from side to
side, lifted her stern to a following sea and yawed so far that her
mainsail got by the lee. The long boom swung inboard and the big sail
jibed over with a slain that shook the entire fabric. The vessel
immediately broached to with all her square-sails aback, and heeled over
until the water bubbled up through her scupper holes.

The noise and the jar roused some of the sleepers forward and a hoarse
voice bawled out angrily: "Now you, Sam! What the devil are you up to?
You'll have the masts overboard if you don't look out."

Immediately after, Dhoody came staggering aft along the sloping deck,
followed by one or two bewildered sailors. The group stood gazing in
muddled surprise at the untended wheel, and Dhoody exclaimed:

"Where's the beggar gone to? Here, you Sam! Where are you?"

"P'raps he's gone down to the cabin," one of the men suggested.

"No, he ain't," said Dhoody. "The companion's fastened up."

"So it is, mate," agreed the other with a glance at the battened doors;
and the party rambled slowly round the poop, peering out into the
darkness astern and speculating vaguely on the strange disappearance.

"He's gone overboard," said Dhoody; "that's what he's done. So you'd
better take the wheel now, Bob Simmons; and you just mind yer helm, or
you'll be goin' overboard, too, with all that lush in yer 'ed."

Accordingly Simmons, protesting sleepily that it "wasn't his trick yet,"
took his place at the wheel. The vessel was put once more on her course,
and the men, with the exception of Dhoody, crawled forward to the shelter
of the caboose. The second mate remained awhile, yawning drearily and
impressing on the somnolent Simmons the responsibilities of his position.
Then, at last, he too went forward, and the ship settled down to its
former quiet.

Osmond waited for some time in case Dhoody should return to see that the
new helmsman was attending to his instructions; but as he made no
reappearance and was now probably asleep, it seemed safe to resume
operations. Osmond thrust his head and shoulders out through the opening,
but, though he could see that the wheel was already deserted, the
unfaithful Simmons was invisible. Presently, however, a soft snore from
somewhere close by invited him to further investigation, and as he crept
out on deck, the enormity of Simmons's conduct was revealed. He had not
sunk overpowered at his post, but had deliberately seated himself on the
deck in a comfortable position with his back against the doors of the
companion, where he now reclined at his ease, wrapped in alcoholic
slumber. If only Dhoody would keep out of the way, the capture was as
good as made.

Osmond stole up to the sleeping seaman and softly encircled his arms with
the noose, leaving it slack with the end handy for the final pull. Then
he put the man's feet together, and passing the lashing round the ankles,
secured it firmly. This aroused the sleeper, who began to mumble
protests. Instantly, Osmond slapped the plaster on his mouth, jerked the
arm-lashing tight and secured it with a knot; unbattened the doors, and,
opening them, slid the wriggling captive down the ladder on to the cabin
floor. Then he came up, closed and re-battened the doors, slipped down
through the skylight, and, dragging his prisoner to the bulkhead, bundled
him neck and crop through the opening and finally deposited him on the
kernel-bags beside the other man, who was now slumbering peace fully.
Having removed the plaster, he remained awhile, for Simmons was in no
condition to give promises of good behaviour; but in a few minutes he
gave what was more reassuring, a good healthy snore; on which Osmond
departed, leaving him to sleep the sleep of the drunk.

The capture had been made none too soon. As Osmond came through into the
cabin, he was aware of voices on deck, and, climbing on to the table, put
his head up to listen, but keeping carefully out of sight.

"It's a dam rum go," a hoarse voice exclaimed. "Seems as if there was
somethink queer about this bloomin' ship. First of all this factory devil
comes aboard like a roarin' lion seekin' who he can bash on the 'ed; then
Sam goes overboard; then Bob Simmons goes overboard. 'Tain't nateral, I
tell yer. There's somethink queer, and it's my belief as it's all along
o' this mutiny."

"Oh, shut up, Bill," growled Dhoody.

"Bill's right, though," said another voice. "We ain't 'ad no luck since
we broke out. I'm for chuckin' this Ambriz job and lettin' the old man
out."

"And what about Redford?" demanded Dhoody.

"Redford ain't no affair of mine," was the sulky reply; to which Dhoody
rejoined in terms that cannot, in the interests of public morality, be
literally recorded; concluding with the remark that "if he'd got to
swing, it wouldn't be for Redford only."

"Then," said the first speaker, "you'd better take the wheel yerself. I
ain't goin' to."

"More ain't I," said another. "I don't want to go overboard."

A prolonged wrangle ensued, the upshot of which was that the men drifted
away forward, leaving Dhoody to steer the ship.

Osmond quietly renewed his preparations, though he realized that a
considerably tougher encounter loomed ahead. Dhoody was not only less
drunk than the others; he was a good deal more alert and intelligent and
he probably had a revolver in his pocket. And the other men would now be
more easily roused after this second catastrophe. He peeped out from time
to time, always finding Dhoody wide awake at his post, and sensible of
drowsy conversation from the sailors forward.

It was fully an hour before a chance seemed to present itself; and Osmond
was too wary to attack blindly without a chance. By that time the
mumblings from forward had subsided into snores and the ship was once
more wrapped in repose. Looking out at that moment, he saw Dhoody staring
critically aloft, as if dissatisfied with the trim of the sails.
Presently the second mate stepped away from the wheel, and, casting off
one of the lee braces, took a long pull at the rope. Now was the time for
action. Slipping out through the skylight, Osmond stole quickly along in
the shelter of the boat, and, emerging behind Dhoody, stood up just as
the latter stooped to belay the rope. He waited until his quarry had set
a half-hitch on the last turn and rose to go back to the wheel; then he
sprang at him, clapped the plaster on his mouth, and encircled him with
his arms.

But Dhoody was a tough adversary. He was stronger, more sober, and less
nervous than the others. And he had a moustache, which interfered with
the set of the plaster, so that his breathing was less hampered. In fact,
Osmond had to clap his hand on it to prevent the man from calling out;
and thus it was that the catastrophe befell. For as Osmond relaxed his
bear- hug with one arm, Dhoody wriggled himself partly free. In a moment
his hand flew to his pocket, and Osmond grabbed his wrist only just in
time to prevent him from pointing the revolver. Then followed a struggle
at the utmost tension of two strong men; a struggle, on Osmond's side, at
least, for dear life. Gripping the other man's wrists, he watched the
revolver, all his strength concentrated on the effort to prevent its
muzzle from being turned on him. And so the two men stood for a space,
nearly motionless, quite silent, trembling with the intensity of muscular
strain.

Suddenly Dhoody took a quick step backwards. A fatal step; for the
manoeuvre failed, and Osmond followed him up, pressing him farther
backward. The bulwark on the poop was comparatively low. As Dhoody
staggered against it with accumulated momentum, his body swung outboard
and his feet rose from the deck. It was impossible to save him without
releasing the pistol hand. He remained poised for an instant on the rail
and then toppled over; and as he slithered down the side and his wrist
slipped from Osmond's grasp, the revolver discharged, blowing a ragged
hole in the bulwark and waking the echoes in the sails with the din of
the explosion.

Osmond sprang back to the companion-hatch and crouched behind the hood.
There was no time for him to get back to the skylight; indeed he hardly
had time to unfasten the doors and drop on to the ladder before the men
came shambling aft, muttering and rubbing their eyes. Quietly closing the
doors, he descended to the cabin and took up his old post of observation
on the table.

"He's gone, right enough," said an awe-stricken voice, "and I reckon
it'll be our turn next. This is a bad look-out, mates."

There was a brief and dismal silence; then a distant report was heard,
followed quickly by two more.

"That's Dhoody," exclaimed another voice. "He's a-swimmin' and makin'
signals. What's to be done? We can't let 'im drownd without doin' nothin
'."

"No," agreed the first man, "we must have a try at pickin' 'im up. You
and me, Tom, will put off in the dinghy, while Joe keeps the ship
hove-to."

"What!" protested Joe. "Am I to be left alone on the ship with no one but
Jim Darker, and him below in his bunk?"

"Well, yer can't let a shipmate drownd, can yer?" demanded the other.
"And look here, Joe Bradley, as soon as you've got the ship hove-to, you
just fetch up the fo'c'sle lamp and show us a glim, or we shall be
goners, too. Now hard down with the helm, mate!"

Very soon the loud flapping of canvas announced that the ship had come up
into the wind, and immediately after the squeal of tackle-blocks was
heard. The Speedwell carried a dinghy, slung from davits at the taffrail,
in addition to the larger boat on deck, and it was in this that the two
men were putting out on their rather hopeless quest.

Osmond rapidly reviewed the situation. Of the original seven men one was
overboard, two were in the hold, one was below in his bunk, and two were
away in the boat. There remained only Joe Bradley. It would be pretty
easy to overpower him and stow him in the hold; but a yet easier plan
suggested itself. Joe was evidently in a state of extreme superstitious
funk and the other two were in little better case. He recalled the
captain's remark as to his resemblance to the dead mate and also the fact
that Redford's oilskins were different from any others on board. These
circumstances seemed to group themselves naturally and indicate a course
of action.

He made his way to the captain's berth and, knocking softly and receiving
no answer, entered. The skipper had fallen asleep over his book and lay
in his bunk, a living commentary on the Book of Job. Osmond took the
oilskins from the peg, and, stealing back silently to the cabin, invested
himself in the borrowed raiment. Presently a passing gleam of light from
above told him that Joe was carrying the fore castle lamp aft to "show a
glim" from the taffrail. Remembering that he had left the companion hatch
unfastened, he ascended the ladder, and, softly opening one door, looked
out. At the moment, Joe was engaged in hanging the lamp from a fair-lead
over the stern, and, as his back was towards the deck, Osmond stepped out
of the hatch and silently approached him.

Having secured the lamp, Joe took a long look over the dark sea and then
turned towards the deck; and as his eyes fell on the tall, oilskinned
figure, obscurely visible in the gloom--for the lamp was below the
bulwark--he uttered a gasp of horror and began rapidly to shuffle away
backwards. Osmond stood motionless, watching him from under the deep
shade of his sou' as he continued to edge away backwards. Suddenly his
heel caught on a ring-bolt and he staggered and fell on the deck with a
howl of terror; but in another instant he had scrambled to his feet and
raced away forward, whence the slam of the forecastle scuttle announced
his retirement to the sanctuary of his berth.

More than a quarter of an hour elapsed before a hoarse hail from the sea
heralded the return of the boat.

"Joe ahoy! It's no go, mate. He's gone." There was a pause. Then came the
splash of oars, a bump under the counter, the sound of the hooking on of
tackles, and another hail.

"Joe ahoy! Is all well aboard?"

Osmond stepped away into the shadow of the main sail, whence he watched
the taffrail. Soon the two men came actively up the tackle-ropes, their
heads appeared above the rail, and they swung themselves on board
simultaneously.

"Joe ahoy!" one of them sang out huskily, as he looked blankly round the
deck. "Where are yer, Joe?" There was a brief silence; then, in an awe-
stricken voice, he exclaimed: "Gawd-amighty, Tom! If he ain't gone
overboard, too!"

At this moment the other man caught sight of Osmond, and, silently
touching his companion on the shoulder, pointed to the motionless figure.
Osmond moved a little out of the shadow and began to pace aft, treading
without a sound. For one instant the two men watched as if petrified;
then, with one accord, they stampeded forward, and once more the
forecastle scuttle slammed. Osmond followed, and quietly thrusting a
belaying-pin through the staple of the scuttle, secured them in their
retreat.

V. THE NEW AFTERGUARD

WHEN Captain Hartup, brusquely aroused from his slumbers, opened his eyes
and beheld a tall, yellow oilskinned figure in his berth, the Book of Job
faded instantly from his memory and he scrambled from his bunk with a
yell of terror. Then, when Osmond took off his sou'-wester, he recognized
his visitor and became distinctly uncivil.

"What the devil do you mean by masquerading in this idiotic fashion?" he
demanded angrily. "I don't want any of your silly schoolboy jokes on this
ship, so you please understand that."

"I came down," said Osmond, smothering a grin and ignoring the
reproaches, "to report progress. I have hove the ship to, but there is no
one at the wheel and no look-out."

The skipper stared at him in bewilderment as he crawled back into his
bunk. "What do you mean?" he asked. "You've hove the ship to? Isn't there
anybody on deck?"

"No. The ship is taking care of herself at the moment."

"Queer," said the skipper. "I wonder what Dhoody's up to."

"Dhoody is overboard," said Osmond. "Overboard!" exclaimed the skipper,
staring harder than ever at Osmond. Then, after an interval of silent
astonishment, he said severely: "You are talking in riddles, young man.
Just try to explain yourself a little more clearly. Do I under stand that
you have hove my second mate overboard?"

"No," replied Osmond. "He went overboard by accident. But it was all for
the best."; and hereupon he proceeded to give the skipper a somewhat
sketchy account of the stirring events of the last few hours, to which
the latter listened with sour disapproval.

"I don't hold with deeds of violence," he said when the story was
finished, "but what you have done is on your own head. Where do you say
the crew are?"

"Two are in the hold and the other four in the fo'c'sle, bolted in. They
are all pretty drunk, but you'll find them as quiet as lambs when they've
slept off their tipple. But the question is, what is to be done now. The
men won't be any good for an hour or two, but there ought to be someone
at the wheel and some sort of watch on deck. And I can't take it on until
I have had a sleep. I've been hard at it ever since I came on board
yesterday."

"Yes," Captain Hartup agreed, sarcastically, "I daresay you found it
fatiguing, chucking your fellow-creatures overboard and breaking their
heads. Well, you had better take the second mate's berth--the one
Redford had--and I will go on deck and keep a look out. But I can't do
much with my arm in a sling."

"What about the lady?" asked Osmond. "Couldn't she hold on to the wheel
if you stood by and told her what to do?"

"Ha!" exclaimed the skipper. "I had forgotten her. Yes, she knows how to
steer--in a fashion. She used to wheedle Redford into letting her take a
trick in his watch while he stood by and instructed her; a parcel of
silly philandering, really, but it wasn't any affair of mine. I'd better
go and rouse her up."

"Wait till I've turned in," said Osmond. "I am not fit to meet a lady
until I have had a sleep and a wash. If you will show me my berth, I will
go and cast the lashings off those two beggars in the hold and then turn
in for an hour or two."

The captain smiled sardonically but made no comment; and when Osmond,
furnished with a lantern, had visited the hold and removed the lashings
from the still slumbering seamen, he entered the tiny berth that the
skipper pointed out to him, closed the door, and, having taken off his
jacket and folded it carefully, and wound his watch, blew out the candle
in the lantern, stretched himself in the bunk and instantly fell asleep.

When he awoke, the gleam from the deck-light over his head--the berth
had no port-hole--informed him that it was day. Reference to his watch
showed the hour to be about half-past eight; and the clink of crockery
and a murmur of voices--one very distinctly feminine--suggested that
breakfast was in progress.

Which, again, suggested that the conditions of life on board had returned
to the more or less normal.

Osmond sprang out of the bunk, and, impelled by hunger and curiosity,
made a lightning toilet with the aid of Redford's razor, sponge, and
brushes. There was, of course, no bath; but a "dry" rub-down in the
oven-like cabin was a fair substitute. In a surprisingly short time, with
the imperfect means at hand, he had made himself almost incredibly
presentable and after a final "look over" in Redford's minute shaving-
glass, he opened the door and entered the cuddy.

The little table, roughly laid for breakfast, was occupied by Captain
Hartup and a lady, and a flat-faced seaman with a black eye officiated as
cabin steward. They all looked up as Osmond emerged from his door and the
sailor grinned a little sheepishly.

"Had a short night, haven't you?" said the captain. "Didn't expect you to
turn out yet. Let me present you to our passenger. Miss Burleigh, this is
Mr.--Mr.--"

"Cook," said Osmond, ready for the question this time.

"Mr. Cook, the young man I was telling you about."

Miss Burleigh acknowledged Osmond's bow, gazing at him with devouring
curiosity and marvelling at his cool, trim, well appearance.

"I think," she said, "we had a brief interview last night, if you can
call it an interview when there was a locked door between us. I am afraid
I wasn't very civil. But you must try to forgive me. I've been sorry
since."

"There is no need to be," replied Osmond. "It was perfectly natural."

"Oh, but it isn't mere remorse. I am so mad with myself for having missed
all the excitements. If I had only known! But, you see, I had happened to
look out of my door in the evening, hearing a peculiar sort of noise, and
then I saw somebody boring holes in the partition, and of course I
thought it was those wretches trying to get into the cabin. Then, when I
heard your voice, I made sure it was Dhoody or one of those other
ruffians, trying to entice me out. And so I missed all the fun."

"Just as well that you did," said the captain. "Females are out of place
in scenes of violence and disorder. What are you going to have, Mr. Cook?
There's corned pork and biscuit and I think there's some lobscouse or
sea-pie in the galley, if the men haven't eaten it all."

Osmond turned suddenly to the sailor, who instantly came to "attention."

"You're Sam Winter, aren't you?"

"Aye, sir," the man replied, considerably taken aback by the "factory
bug's" uncanny omniscience. "Sam Winter it is, sir."

"How is Jim Darker?"

"He's a-doin' nicely, sir," replied Sam, regarding Osmond with secret
awe. "Eat a rare breakfast of lobscouse, he did."

"Is there any left?"

"I think there is, sir."

"Then I'll have some"; and, as the man saluted and bustled away up the
companion-steps, he seated himself on the fixed bench by the table.

Captain Hartup smiled sourly, while Miss Burleigh regarded Osmond with
delighted amusement.

"Seem quite intimate with 'em all," the former remarked. "Regular friend
of the family. I suppose it was you who gave Winter that black eye?"

"I expect so," replied Osmond. "He probably caught it in the scrum when I
first came on board. Did you have any trouble in getting the men to go
back to duty?"

"The men in the fo'c'sle wouldn't come out till daylight, and the two men
in the hold took a lot of rousing from their drunken sleep. Of course, I
couldn't get through that hole with my arm in this sling, so I had to
prod them with a boat-hook. It's a pity you made that hole. Lets the
smell of the cargo and the bilge through into the cabin."

He looked distastefully at the dark aperture in the bulkhead and sniffed
--quite unnecessarily, for the air of the cuddy was charged with the
mingled aroma of bilge and kernels.

"Well, it had to be," said Osmond; "and it will be easy to cover it up.
After all, a smell in the cuddy is better than sea-water."

Here Sam Winter was seen unsteadily descending the companion-steps with a
large enamelled-iron plate in his hands; which plate, being deferentially
placed on the table before Osmond, was seen to be loaded with a
repulsive-looking mixture of "salt horse," shreds of fat pork and soaked
biscuit floating in a greasy brown liquid.

"That's all there was left, sir," said he, transferring a small surplus
from his hands to the dorsal aspect of his trousers.

Osmond made no comment on this statement but fell-to on the unsavoury
mess with wolfish voracity, while the captain filled a mug with alleged
coffee and passed it to him.

"Who is at the wheel, Winter?" the captain asked.

"Simmons, sir," was the reply. "I woke him up again as I come aft."

"Well, you'd better go up and take it from him. Carry on till I come up."

As Winter disappeared up the companionway Miss Burleigh uttered a little
gurgle of enjoyment. "Aren't they funny?" she exclaimed. "Fancy waking up
the man at the wheel! It's like a comic opera."

The captain looked at her sourly as he tapped the table with a piece of
biscuit for the purpose of evicting a couple of fat weevils; but he made
no comment, and for a time the meal proceeded in silence. The skipper was
fully occupied with cutting up his corned pork with one hand and in
breaking the hard biscuit and knocking out the weevils, while Osmond
doggedly worked his way through the lobscouse with the silent
concentration of a famished man, all unconscious of the interest and
curiosity with which he was being observed by the girl opposite him.

However, the lobscouse came to an end--all too soon--and as he reached
out to the bread-barge for a handful of biscuit he met her eyes; and
fine, clear, bright blue eyes they were, sparkling with vivacity and
humour. She greeted his glance with an affable smile and hoped that he
was feeling revived.

"That looked rather awful stuff," she added.

"It was all right," said he, "only there wasn't enough of it. But I hope
you had something more suitable."

"She has had what the ship's stores provide, like the rest of us,"
snapped the captain. "This is not a floating hotel."

"No, it isn't," Osmond agreed, "and that's a fact. But it is something
that she still floats; and it would be just as well to keep her
floating."

"What do you mean?" demanded the skipper.

Osmond thoughtfully extracted a weevil with the prong of his fork as he
replied: "You've got a crew of six, three to a watch, and one of them has
got to do the cooking. But you have got no officers."

"Well, I know that," said the captain. "What about it?"

"You can't carry on without officers."

"I can and I shall. I shall appoint one of the men to be mate and take
the other watch myself."

"That won't answer," said Osmond. "There isn't a man among them who could
be trusted or who is up to the job; and you are not in a fit state to
stand regular watches."

Captain Hartup snorted. "Don't you lay down the law to me, young man. I
am the master of this ship." And then he added, a little inconsistently
"Perhaps you can tell me how I am to get a couple of officers."

"I can," replied Osmond. "There will have to be some responsible person
on deck with each watch."

"Well?

"Well, there are two responsible persons sitting at this table with you."

For a few moments the captain stared at Osmond in speechless astonishment
(while Miss Burleigh murmured "Hear, hear!" and rapped the table with the
handle of her knife). At length he burst out: "What! Do I understand you
to suggest that I should navigate this vessel with a landsman and a
female as my mates?"

"I am not exactly a landsman," Osmond replied. "I am an experienced
yachtsman and I have made a voyage in a sailing ship."

"Pah!" exclaimed the skipper. "Fresh-water sailor and a passenger! Don't
talk nonsense. . And a female, too!"

"What I am suggesting," Osmond persisted calmly, "is that you should be
about as much as is possible in your condition and that Miss Burleigh and
I should keep an eye on the men when you are below. I could take all the
night watches and Miss Burleigh could be on deck during the day."

"That's just rank foolishness," said the skipper. "Talk of a comic opera!
Why, you are wanting to turn the ship into a Punch and Judy show! I've no
patience to listen to you," and the captain rose in dudgeon and crawled--
not without difficulty--up the companion-steps. Miss Burleigh watched
him with a mischievous smile, and as his stumbling feet disappeared she
turned to Osmond.

"What a lark it would be!" she exclaimed, gleefully. "Do you think you
will be able to persuade him? He is rather an obstinate little man."

"The best way with obstinate people," replied Osmond, "is to assume that
they have agreed, and carry on. Can you steer--not that you need, being
an officer. But you ought to know how to."

"I can steer by the compass. But I don't know much about the sails
excepting that you have to keep the wind on the right side of them."

"Yes, that is important with a square vessel. But you will soon learn the
essentials--enough to enable you to keep the crew out of mischief. We
will go on deck presently and then I will show you the ropes and explain
how the gear works."

"That will be jolly," said she. "But there's another thing that I want
you to explain: about this mutiny, you know.	Captain Hartup was
awfully muddled about it. I want to know all that happened while I was
locked in my berth."

"I expect you know all about it now," Osmond replied evasively. "There
was a bit of a rumpus, of course, but as soon as Dhoody was overboard it
was all plain sailing."

"Now, you are not going to put me off like that," she said, in a resolute
tone. "I want the whole story in detail, if you please, sir. Does a
second mate say 'sir' when he, or she, addresses the first mate?"

"Not as a rule," Osmond replied, with a grin.

"Then I won't. But I want the story. Now." Osmond looked uneasily into
the delicately fair, slightly freckled face and thought it, with its
crown of red-gold hair, the prettiest face that he had ever seen. But it
was an uncommonly determined little face, all the same.

"There really isn't any story," he began. But she interrupted sharply:

"Now listen to me. Yesterday there were seven ferocious men going about
this ship like roaring and swearing lions. To-day there are six meek and
rather sleepy lambs--I saw them just before breakfast. It is you who
have produced this miraculous change, and I want to know how you did it.
No sketchy evasions, you know. I want a clear, intelligible narrative."

"It isn't a very suitable occasion for a long yarn," he objected. "Don't
you think we ought to go on deck and keep an eye on the old man?"

"Perhaps we ought," she agreed. "But I'm not going to let you off the
story, you know. That is understood, isn't it?"

He gave a reluctant assent, and when she had fetched her pith helmet from
her cabin and he had borrowed a Panama hat of Redford's, they ascended
together to the deck.

The scene was reminiscent of "The Ancient Mariner." The blazing sun shone
down on a sea that seemed to be composed of oil, so smooth and unruffled
was its surface. The air was absolutely still, and the old brigantine
wallowed foolishly as the great, glassy rollers swept under her, her
sails alternately filling and backing with loud, explosive flaps as the
masts swung from side to side, and her long main- boom banging across
with a heavy jar at each roll. Sam Winter stood at the wheel in a posture
of easy negligence (but he straightened up with a jerk as Osmond's head
rose out of the companion-hood); the rest of the crew, excepting Jim
Darker, lounged about drowsily forward; and the skipper appeared to be
doing sentry-go before a row of green gin-cases that were ranged along
the side of the caboose. He looked round as the new-corners arrived on
deck, and pointing to the cases, addressed Osmond.

"These boxes of poison belong to you, I under stand. I can't have them
lying about here."

"Better stow them in the lazarette when I've checked the contents,"
replied Osmond.

"I can't have intoxicating liquors in my lazarette. This is a temperance
ship. I've a good mind to chuck 'em overboard."

"All right," said Osmond. "You pay me one pound four, and then you can do
what you like with them."

"Pay!" shrieked the captain. "I pay for this devil's elixir! I traffic in
strong drink that steals away men's reason and turns them into fiends!
Never I Not a farthing!"

"Very well," said Osmond, "then they had better go below. Here, you,
Simmons and Bradley, bear a hand with those cases Will you see them
stowed away in the lazarette, Miss Burleigh?"

"Aye, aye, sir," the latter replied, touching her helmet smartly;
whereupon the two men, with delighted grins, pounced upon two of the
cases, while Miss Burleigh edged up close to Osmond.

"What on earth is the lazarette?" she whispered, "and where shall I find
it?"

"Under the cuddy floor," he whispered in reply. "The trap is under the
table."

As the two seamen picked up their respective loads and went off beaming,
followed by Miss Burleigh, the captain stood gazing open-mouthed. "Well,
I'm – I'm – sure!" he exclaimed, at length. "What do you mean by giving
orders to my crew? And I said I wouldn't have that gin in my lazarette."

"Can't leave it about for the men to pinch. You'll have them all drunk
again. And what about the watches? We can't have the regular port and
starboard watches until you are fit again. Better do as I suggested. Let
me keep on deck during the night, and you take charge during the day.
Miss Burleigh can relieve you if you want to go below."

"I'll have no women playing the fool on my ship," snapped the skipper;
"but as to you, I don't mind your staying on deck at night if you
undertake to call me up when you get into a mess--as you certainly
will."

"Very well," said Osmond, "we'll leave it at that. And now you'd better
come below and let me attend to your bandages. There's nothing to do on
deck while this calm lasts."

The skipper complied, not unwillingly; and when Osmond had very gently
and skilfully renewed the dressings and rebandaged the injured arm and
head--the captain reclining in his bunk for the purpose – he retired,
leaving his patient to rest awhile with the aid of the Commentary On the
Book of Job.

As soon as he arrived on deck, he proceeded definitely to take charge.
The stowage of the gin was now completed and the crew were once more
collected forward, gossiping idly but evidently watchful and expectant of
further developments from the "after- guard." Osmond hailed them in a
masterful tone. "Here, you men, get a pull on the main-sheet and stop the
boom from slamming. Haul her in as taut as she'll go."

The men came aft with ready cheerfulness, and as Osmond cast off the fall
of the rope and gave them a lead, they tailed on and hauled with a will
until the sheet-blocks were as close as they could be brought. Then, when
the rope had been belayed, Osmond turned to the crew and briefly
explained the arrangements for working the ship in her present,
short-handed state.

"So you understand," he concluded, "I am the mate for the time being, and
Miss Burleigh is taking the duties of the second mate. Is that clear?"

"Aye, aye, sir," was the reply, accompanied by the broadest of grins, "we
understands, sir."

"Who is the cook?" inquired Osmond.

"Bill Foat 'as been a-doin' the cookin', sir," Sim mons explained.

"Then he'd better get on with it. Whose watch on deck is it?"

"Starboard watch, sir," replied Simmons; "that's me and Winter and
Darker."

"I must have a look at Darker," said Osmond. "Meanwhile you take the
wheel, and you, Winter, keep a look-out forward. I haven't heard the
ship's bell sounded this morning."

"No, sir," Winter explained. "The clock in the companion has stopped and
none of us haven't got the time."

"Very well," said Osmond. "I'll wind it up and start it when I make eight
bells."

The routine of the duties being thus set going, Osmond went forward and
paid a visit to the invalid in the forecastle, with the result that Jim
Darker presently appeared on deck with a clean bandage and a somewhat
sheepish grin. Then the chief officer turned his attention to the
education of his subordinate, observed intently by six pairs of
inquisitive eyes.

"I think, Miss Burleigh," he said, "you had better begin by learning how
to take an observation. Then you will be able to do something that the
men can't, as an officer should. Do you know anything about mathematics?

"As much as is necessary, I expect. I took second class honours in maths.
Will that do?"

"Of course it will. By the way, where did you take your degree?"

Oxford – Somerville, you know."

"Oh," said Osmond, rather taken aback. "When were you up at Oxford?"

She regarded him with a mischievous smile as she replied: "After your
time, I should say. I only came down a year ago."

It was, of course, but a chance shot. Nevertheless, Osmond hastily
reverted to the subject of observations. "It is quite a simple matter to
take the altitude of the sun, and you work out your results almost
entirely from tables. You will do it easily the first time. I'll go and
get Redford's sextant, or better still, we might go below and I can show
you how to use a sextant and how to work out your latitude."

"Yes," she agreed eagerly, "I would sooner have my first lesson below.
Our friends here are so very interested in us."

She bustled away down to the cabin, and Osmond, following, went into his
berth, whence he presently emerged with two mahogany cases and a portly
volume, inscribed 'Norie's Navigation'.

"I've found the second mate's sextant as well as Redford's, so we can
have one each," he said, laying them on the table with the volume. "And
now let us get to work. We mustn't stay here too long or we shall miss
the transit."

The two mates seated themselves side by side at the table, and Osmond,
taking one of the sextants out of its case, explained its construction
and demonstrated its use. Then the volume was opened, the tables
explained, the mysteries of "dip" refraction and "parallax" expounded,
and finally an imaginary observation was worked out on the back of an
envelope.

"I had no idea," said Miss Burleigh, as she triumphantly finished the
calculation, "that the science of navigation was so simple."

"It isn't," replied Osmond. "Latitude by the meridian altitude of the sun
is the A B C of navigation. Some of it, such as longitude by lunar
distance, is fairly tough. But it is time we got on deck. It is past
eleven by my watch and the Lord knows what the time actually is. The
chronometer has stopped. The skipper bumped against it when he staggered
into his berth on the day when the mutiny broke out."

"Then how shall we get the longitude?" Miss Bur leigh asked.

"We shan't. But it doesn't matter much. We must keep on a westerly
course. There is nothing, in that direction, between us and America."

The appearance on deck of the two officers, each armed with a sextant,
created a profound impression. It is true that, so far as the "second
mate" was concerned, the attitude of the crew was merely that of
respectful amusement. But the effect, in the case of Osmond, was very
different. The evidence that he was able to "shoot the sun" established
him in their eyes as a pukka navigator, and added to the awe with which
they regarded this uncannily capable "factory bug." And there was plenty
of time for the impression to soak in; for the first glance through the
sextant showed that the sun was still rising fairly fast; that there was
yet some considerable time to run before noon. In fact, more than half an
hour passed before the retardation of the sun's motion heralded the
critical phase. And at this moment the skipper's head rose slowly above
the hood of the companion-hatch.

At first his back was towards the observers, but when he emerged and,
turning forward, became aware of them, he stopped short as if petrified.
The men ceased their gossip to watch him with ecstatic grins, and Sam
Winter edged stealthily towards the ship's bell.

"What is the meaning of this play-acting and tom foolery?" the skipper
demanded, sourly. "Women and landsmen monkeying about with nautical
instruments."

Osmond held up an admonitory hand, keeping his eye glued to the eyepiece
of the sextant.

"I'm asking you a question," the captain persisted. There was another
brief silence. Then, suddenly, Osmond sang out "Eight bells!" and looked
at his watch. Winter, seizing the lanyard that hung from the clapper of
the bell, struck the eight strokes, and the second mate – prompted in a
hoarse whisper – called