d ascended a step
ladder to a door about six feet above the spot where Mike stood, and Don
stood with his book under his arm, his brow rugged, and a thoughtful
look in his eyes.

Just then the small door in the yard gate was opened, and a
sturdy-looking grey-haired man in snuff-coloured coat and cocked hat,
drab breeches and gaiters, entered unseen by the pair, who had their
backs to him.

"I 'member, Mas' Don, when I were out in the _Mary Anne_ five year ago.
We'd got to Pannymah, when the skipper stood with his glass to his eye,
looking at a strange kind o' hobjick ashore, and he says to me, `Mike,
my lad--'"

"You idle scoundrel! How many more times am I to tell you that I will
not have my time wasted over those lying stories of yours? Lindon, am I
ever to be able to trust you when business takes me away?"

The words came in short sharp tones, and the speaker's dark eyes seemed
to flash. The effect was marvellous.

Mike began to turn the handle at a rapid rate, winding up the rope till
the pair of hooks used for grasping the great hogsheads rattled with
their chains against the pulley wheels of the crane, and a shout came
from the warehouse,--

"Whatcher doing of? Hold hard!"

"Stop, sir!" cried the stern-looking man to Mike, just as Jem appeared
at the upper doorway and looked down.

"Oh!" he ejaculated. "Didn't know as you was there, sir."

"It is disgraceful, Lindon. The moment my back is turned you leave your
desk to come and waste the men's time. I am ashamed of you."

Lindon's forehead grew more wrinkled as Josiah Christmas, merchant of
Bristol city, and his maternal uncle, walked into the office, whither
the lad followed slowly, looking stubborn and ill-used, for Mike
Bannock's poison was at work, and in his youthful ignorance and folly,
he felt too angry to attempt a frank explanation.

In fact, just then one idea pervaded his mind--two ideas--that his uncle
was a tyrant, and that he ought to strike against his tyranny and be
free.

CHAPTER TWO.

BLIND AS BATS.

That same evening Don Lavington did not walk home with his uncle, but
hung back to see Jem Wimble lock-up, and then sauntered slowly with him
toward the little low house by the entrance gates, where the yard-man,
as he was called, lived in charge.

Jem had been in the West India merchant's service from a boy, and no one
was more surprised than he when on the death of old Topley, Josiah
Christmas said to him one morning,