"True. So set at 'em at once, Striker. But mind ye, mate, be cautious
how ye talk to them, an' don't commit ayther of us too far, till you've
larnt their temper. I'll meet ye in the first dog-watch the morrow.
Then you can tell me how the land's likely to lie."

"All right. I'll see to it in the smooth way. Ye can trust Jack
Striker for that."

"Take another suck o' the Santa Cruz. If this trip proves prosp'rous in
the way we're plannin' it, neyther you nor me 'll need to go without the
best o' good liquor for the rest o' our lives."

Again Striker clutches at the proffered bottle, and holds it to his
head--this time till he has drained it dry.

Returned to him empty, Harry Blew tosses it overboard. Then parting
from the steersman, he commences moving forward, as with the design to
look after other duties.

As he steps out from under the shadow of the spanker, the moon gleaming
athwart his face, shows on it an expression which neither pencil nor pen
could depict. Difficult indeed to interpret it. The most skilled
physiognomist would be puzzled to say, whether it is the reproach of
conscious guilt, or innocence driven to desperation.

CHAPTER FIFTY TWO.

SHARE AND SHARE ALIKE.

In the _Condor's_ forecastle.

It is her third night since leaving San Francisco, and the second watch
is on deck; the men on the first having gone down below. That on duty
is Padilla's; in it Gomez, Hernandez, Velarde, and the two sailors of
nationality unknown.

The off-watch consists of Striker, Davis, the Frenchman, who is called
La Crosse, with the Dutchman and Dane.

All these five are in the forepeak, the chief mate, as they suppose,
having retired to rest.

They have been below for some time, and it is now near eleven o'clock of
the night. All have finished their suppers, and are seated, some on the
sides of their bunks, some on sea-chests. A large one of the latter,
cleated in the centre of the floor, does service as a table. Upon it is
a black bottle containing rum--the sailor's orthodox drink. In his
hand, each holds his pannikin, while in every mouth there is a pipe, and
the forecastle is full of smoke. A pack of playing-cards lies on the
lid of the chest; greasy and begrimed, as if they had seen long service;
though not any on this particular night, are in the hands of those
sitting around, who show no inclination to touch them. They may have
been used by the men of the watch now on deck; this, p