the
rest had deserted. Even the three junior mates who had headed the
whaleboats were gone: and of the four harpooners, only one was left,
a wild New Zealander, or "Mowree" as his countrymen are more commonly
called in the Pacific. But this was not all. More than half the
seamen remaining were more or less unwell from a long sojourn in a
dissipated port; some of them wholly unfit for duty, one or two
dangerously ill, and the rest managing to stand their watch though
they could do but little.

The captain was a young cockney, who, a few years before, had
emigrated to Australia, and, by some favouritism or other, had
procured the command of the vessel, though in no wise competent.
He was essentially a landsman, and though a man of education, no more
meant for the sea than a hairdresser. Hence everybody made fun of
him. They called him "The Cabin Boy," "Paper Jack," and half a dozen
other undignified names. In truth, the men made no secret of the
derision in which they held him; and as for the slender gentleman
himself, he knew it all very well, and bore himself with becoming
meekness. Holding as little intercourse with them as possible, he
left everything to the chief mate, who, as the story went, had been
given his captain in charge. Yet, despite his apparent unobtrusiveness,
the silent captain had more to do with the men than they thought. In
short, although one of your sheepish-looking fellows, he had a sort
of still, timid cunning, which no one would have suspected, and which,
for that very reason, was all the more active. So the bluff mate,
who always thought he did what he pleased, was occasionally made a
fool of; and some obnoxious measures which he carried out, in spite
of all growlings, were little thought to originate with the dapper
little fellow in nankeen jacket and white canvas pumps. But, to all
appearance, at least, the mate had everything his own way; indeed,
in most things this was actually the case; and it was quite plain
that the captain stood in awe of him.

So far as courage, seamanship, and a natural aptitude for keeping
riotous spirits in subjection were concerned, no man was better
qualified for his vocation than John Jermin. He was the very
beau-ideal of the efficient race of short, thick-set men. His hair
curled in little rings of iron gray all over his round bullet head. As
for his countenance, it was strongly marked, deeply pitted with the
small-pox. For the rest, there was a fierce little