nd fill up your boats or tanks direct, if you
like."

"Ah, that'll do first-rate," remarked Turnbull; "I'll give orders for
the men to start the foul water at once. And now, as I see that the
sun's over the fore-yard, what'll you take to drink? I s'pose you've
been pretty hard up all these months for drink, haven't ye?"

"No, indeed," answered Leslie; "on the contrary, I found an abundance of
wines and spirits aboard the brig. The only thing that I have lacked
has been mineral waters; therefore if you happen to have any soda-water
on board it will give me great pleasure to take a whisky and soda with
you."

"I believe we have some sodas left," answered Turnbull, doubtfully.
"You won't mind takin' it up here on the poop, will ye?" he continued.
"Fact is there's a man lyin' sick in one of the cabins below, and I
don't want to disturb him with our talk."

Of course Leslie, although he had his doubts about the genuineness of
the "sick man" story, readily acquiesced in the suggestion of the other,
and seated himself in one of two deck-chairs that were standing on the
poop, while Turnbull retired ostensibly for the purpose of quietly
hunting up the steward.

A few minutes later the steward--a young Cockney of about twenty-five
years of age, who had the worn, harassed appearance of a man living in a
state of perpetual scare--came up the poop ladder, bearing a tray on
which were a couple of tumblers, an uncorked bottle of whisky, and two
bottles of soda-water, which he placed upon the skylight cover. Then,
taking up the whisky-bottle and a tumbler, he proceeded to pour out a
portion of the spirit, glancing anxiously about him as he did so.

"Say `when,' sir, please," he requested, in a loud voice, immediately
adding under his breath, "Are you alone, ashore there, sir, or is there
others there along with you?"

His whole air of extreme trepidation, and the manner of secrecy with
which he put this singular question, was but further confirmation--if
any were needed--of certain very ugly suspicions that had been taking a
strong hold upon Leslie during the whole progress of his interview with
the man Turnbull; Dick therefore replied to the steward by putting
another question to him in the same low, cautious tones--

"Why do you ask me that, my man?" he murmured.

"Because, sir, there's--Is that about enough whisky, sir?"

The latter part of the steward's speech was uttered in a tone of voice
that could be distinctly