nife and pistol in hand, and black eyes flashing
with indignant anger.

"Sir, Monsieur, I vil know vat for is dis disturbance of mine slumbers?"

"Sir!" said the other, stepping back, instantly cooled down at sight of
the weapons, "I beg pardon: was looking for a scoundrel of a Dutchman
who has been abusing me, but I see he's not here."

"No sir, he is not here!" and the door was slammed violently to.

"Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you vake up de wrong bassenger. Ha, ha!
I dells you again you ish von pig sheat!"

Now the voice came from the skylight overhead, apparently, and with a
fierce imprecation the irate gamester rushed upon deck, and ran hither
and thither in search of his tormentor.

His victim, who had been looking on during the little scene and
listening to the mysterious voice in silent wide-eyed wonder and fear,
now rose hastily, his face deathly pale, with trembling hands gathered
up the money he had staked, and hurrying into his state room, locked
himself in.

The remaining passengers looked at each other.

"What does it mean?" cried one.

"A ventriloquist aboard, of course," returned another. "Let's follow and
see the fun."

"I wonder which of us it is!" remarked the first, looking hard at our
party.

"I don't know, but come on. That fellow Nick Ward, is a noted blackleg
and ruffian: had his nose broken in a fight and is sensitive on the
subject; was cheating of course."

They passed out, our party close in their rear.

"Where's that Dutch villain?" Ward was screaming, following up his
question with a volley of oaths.

"Who?" asked the mate, "I've seen none up here; though there are some in
the steerage."

Down to the steerage flew the gambler without waiting to reply, and
bounding into the midst of a group of German emigrants seated there,
quietly smoking their pipes, angrily demanded which of them it was who
had been on the upper deck just now, abusing him, and calling him a
cheat, and a man with a broken nose.

They heard him in silence, with a cool, phlegmatic indifference most
exasperating to one in his present mood.

Drawing his revolver, "Speak!" he shouted, "tell me which one it was, or
I'll--I'll shoot every mother's son of you!"

His arms were suddenly pinioned from behind while a deep voice grunted,
"You vill, vill you? I dinks not; you ish mine brisoner. Dere ish
nopody here as did gall you names, and you vill put up dat leetle gun."

A man of giant size and hercule