h horrors. He'd die rather than return to the ship.

"D'ye hear, Schmalz?" he shouted, to better attract his host's
attention. "I tell ye I'm through with seagoing. They'll never get me
back!"

Schmalz, however, turned a deaf ear. He was unwilling or else too busy
to listen. So, finding that he had no one to whom he could impart his
sorrows, Armitage turned once more to the whiskey-bottle, with the idea
of drowning them. The strong liquor soon had the effect of making him
drowsy. His head dropped heavily on his broad chest and his snores shook
the room.

He might have slept in this way for hours without disturbance, only
Schmalz clumsily dropped a tray, and the sudden crash aroused the
stoker with a start. Rubbing his eyes, he turned eagerly to the clock,
and a look of satisfaction overspread his face. The _Atlanta_ would soon
be on her way to the Mediterranean. Half an hour more and he would have
nothing to fear. They would have sailed without him. Then he need skulk
no longer in this den. He could go forth a free man, at liberty to do
what he chose.

But as his befuddled brain began to clear, he grew uneasy. He knew the
boiler-room was short-handed. They must have discovered his absence.
Shorty and the others, in revenge, would be likely to peach on him and
say where he was to be found. The officers would come after him and drag
him back to that abominable stoke-hold. He knew enough of the shipping
laws to be aware that they had the right. He being an English fireman in
a foreign port, all they had to do was to go before the British consul
and secure his arrest. Putting his hand to his hip pocket, he drew out a
revolver and regarded lovingly its polished surface.

"My only friend!" he muttered. "Let 'em come! I'll give 'em all the
fight they want--more than they want! I'll put a bullet through my own
head rather than be dragged back to that stoke-hold!"

And if the _Atlanta_ sailed without him--what then? He had had enough of
the sea, that was certain, yet he must earn a living somehow. He hadn't
a dollar in the world, and he knew no trade that he could turn his hand
to. His life at sea had unfitted him for anything else. Even if he made
the effort and let the whiskey alone, how could he seek employment
looking as he did? With no linen and in his grimy, oil-stained clothes,
he would be eyed everywhere with suspicion. Nobody would have anything
to do with him. The world has no use for its failures, for men who ar