any words, but the
burden of his remarks amounted to it, and nothing less.

The second mate had the middle watch on that eventful night, and just
after he had struck four bells, and the wheel had been relieved, he was
inexpressibly scandalised by hearing above the howling of the gale loud
sounds of singing and jocularity on the forecastle.

Such sounds were of so very unusual a character on board the _Princess
Royal_ that, coupled with the circumstance of their being uttered in the
middle watch of all times in the world, he was at first so astonished as
to be quite unable to believe his own ears. Very soon, however, they
were repeated, one of the men actually breaking into a rollicking song,
the burden of which was an invocation to "Let us all be jolly, boys,"
under every conceivable combination of circumstances.

"Jolly! The scoundrels! How dare they so much as think of such a thing
at a time when they were living under the ban of their officers' severe
displeasure? And the ship a perfect wreck aloft, too!" It was simply
monstrous; the second mate's righteous anger blazed up into full fury at
once, and, advancing to the break of the poop, he roared out in
stentorian tones--

"Silence, there, for'ard! What do you mean, you unmannerly swabs, by
disturbing the ship fore and aft with your infernal howling at this time
of night?"

Either the "unmannerly swabs" had not heard him, or they were so utterly
lost to all sense of the respect due to their officer as to pay no
attention to his polite adjuration, for the song was continued, with
some attempt at a chorus.

The second mate was not in the habit of speaking twice to those under
him, and he did not attempt to do so now. Drawing his knotted "colt"
out of his pocket, he descended the poop-ladder, and hurried forward as
fast as the heavy rolling of the ship would permit, determined to teach
the "howling thieves" a lesson they would not readily forget.

Meanwhile, though he was blissfully ignorant of the fact, sharp eyes had
been watching his motions for some time; and his foot was scarcely on
the top step of the poop-ladder when Jim Martin, the owner of a pair of
the aforesaid sharp eyes, exclaimed--

"Hurrah, my bullies! Keep it up; here he comes. The shark has bolted
the bait without so much as smelling at it."

The group of men clustered on the forecastle made a slight restless
movement, as men sometimes will when they are conscious of the approach
of