e door before opening it.

Captain Kettle whipped the tumbler out of the passenger's shaking
fingers, and emptied its contents into the wash-basin.

"I'm going to see you hanged shortly, you drunken beast," he said, "but
in the mean while you may as well get sober for a change, and explain
things up a bit."

Cranze swung his legs out of the bunk and sat up. He was feeling very
tottery, and the painfulness of his head did not improve his temper.
"Look here," he said, "I've had enough of your airs and graces. I've
paid for my passage on this rubbishy old water-pusher of yours, and I'll
trouble you to keep a civil tongue in your head, or I'll report you to
your owners. You are like a railway guard, my man. After you have seen
that your passengers have got their proper tickets, it's your duty to--"

Mr. Cranze's connective remarks broke off here for the time being. He
found himself suddenly plucked away from the bunk by a pair of iron
hands, and hustled out through the state-room door. He was a tall man,
and the hands thrust him from below, upward, and, though he struggled
wildly and madly, all his efforts to have his own way were futile.
Captain Owen Kettle had handled far too many really strong men in this
fashion to even lose breath over a dram-drinking passenger. So Cranze
found himself hurtled out on to the lower fore-deck, where somebody
handcuffed him neatly to an iron stanchion, and presently a mariner, by
Captain Kettle's orders, rigged a hose, and mounted on the iron bulwark
above him, and let a three-inch stream of chilly brine slop steadily on
to his head.

The situation, from an onlooker's point of view, was probably ludicrous
enough, but what daunted the patient was that nobody seemed to take it
as a joke. There were a dozen men of the crew who had drawn near to
watch, and yesterday all these would have laughed contemptuously at each
of his contortions. But now they are all stricken to a sudden solemnity.

"Spell-o," ordered Kettle. "Let's see if he's sober yet."

The man on the bulwarks let the stream from the hose flop overboard,
where it ran out into a stream of bubbles which joined the wake.

Cranze gasped back his breath, and used it in a torrent of curses.

"Play on him again," said Kettle, and selected a good black
before-breakfast cigar from his pocket. He lit it with care. The man on
the bulwark shifted his shoulder for a better hold against the
derrick-guy, and swung the limp hose in-board a