rough the mate--and after what had
occurred, it would be safer to turn loose a Bengal tiger on deck then
the infuriated captain. There was but one way out of the trouble,
and they all knew it. They looked at one another; nothing was
wanting but the word, and it soon came. Secker had sailed from the
Cove of Cork, and being an Irishman, he was by nature eloquent, first
in speech, and first in action. He reflected afterwards, when he had
leisure to do so.

"Short work is the best," he said, "over he goes; lift the devil."
Each man seized an arm or leg, and Blogg was carried round
the mast to the lee side. The men worked together from training and
habit. They swung the body athwart the deck like a pendulum, and with
a "one! two! three!" it cleared the bulwark, and the devil went
head foremost into the deep sea. The cook, looking on from behind
the mast, gave a deep sigh of relief.

Thus it was that a great breach of the peace was committed on the
Pacific Ocean; and it was done, too, on a beautiful summer's evening,
when the sun was low, a gentle breeze barely filled the sails, and
everybody should have been happy and comfortable.

Captain Blogg rose to the surface directly and swam after his
schooner. The fury of his soul did not abate all at once. He roared
to the mate to bring the schooner to, but there was no responsive
"Aye, aye, sir." He was now outside of his jurisdiction, and his
power was gone. He swam with all his strength, and his bloated face
still looked red as the foam passed by it. The helmsman had resumed
his place, and steadied the tiller, keeping her full, while the other
men looked over the stern. Secker said: "The old man will have a
long swim."

But the "old man" swam a losing race. His vessel was gliding away
from him: his face grew pale, and in an agony of fear and despair,
he called to the men for God's sake to take him on board and he would
forgive everything.

But his call came too late; he could find no sureties for his good
behaviour in the future; he had never in his life shown any love for
God or pity for man, and he found in his utmost need neither mercy
nor pity now. He strained his eyes in vain over the crests of the
restless billows, calling for the help that did not come. The
receding sails never shivered; no land was near, no vessel in sight.
The sun went down, and the hopeless sinner was left struggling alone
on the black waste of waters.

The men released the c