Beersheby, feeding you, and giving you tobacco to smoke--'

"''Twas my tobacco,' breaks in Julius.

"'Shut up! Cruising you around, and you living on the fat of--of
the--the water, and me trusting to get my pay out of tintypes of
Kanakas! Was that it? Was it?'

"'Why--why, yes,' answers Rosy. 'But, cap'n, you don't understand--'

"'Then,' says George, standing up and rolling up his pajama sleeves,
'there's going to be justifiable 'omicide committed right now.'

"Jule said that if it hadn't been that the skipper's sore back got to
hurting him he don't know when him and the cook would have had their
turn at Rosy. 'Course they wanted a turn on account of the tobacco
and the dinner, not to mention the stone bruises. When all hands was
through, that photographer was a spiled negative.

"And that was only the beginning. They ain't much fun abusing Kanakas
because they don't talk back, but first along Rosy would try to talk
back, and that give 'em a chance. Julius had learned a lot of things
from that mate on the bark, and he tried 'em all on that tintype man.
And afterward they invented more. They made him work his passage, and
every mean and dirty job there was to do, he had to do it. They took
his clothes away from him, and, while they lasted, the skipper had three
shirts at once, which hadn't happened afore since he served his term in
the Sydney jail. And he was such a COMFORT to 'em. Whenever the dinner
wa'n't cooked right, instead of blaming Teunis, they took it out of
Rosy. By the time they made their first port they wouldn't have parted
with him for no money, and they locked him up in the fo'castle and kept
him there. And when one of the two Kanaka boys run away they shipped
Rosy in his place by unanimous vote. And so it went for six months, the
Emily trading and stealing all around the South Seas.

"One day the schooner was off in an out-of-the way part of the
ocean, and the skipper come up from down below, bringing one of the
photographing bottles from the carpetbag.

"'See 'ere,' says he to Rosy, who was swabbing decks just to keep him
out of mischief, 'w'at kind of a developer stuff is this? It has a
mighty familiar smell.'

"'That ain't developer, sir,' answers Rosy, meek as usual. 'That's
alcohol. I use it--'

"'Alcohol!' says George. 'Do you mean to tell me that you've 'ad alcohol
aboard all this time and never said a word to one of us? If that ain't
just like you! Of all the ungrateful beasts as ev