cabin, followed by snarling
maledictions and threats.

It was hardly a victory for either side. The pistols were empty and the
fight taken out of the mates for a time; and on the deck lay three
moaning men, while two others clung to the fife-rail, draining blood
from limp, hanging arms. But eleven sound and angry men were left--and
the officers had more ammunition. They entered their rooms, mopped
their faces with wet towels, reloaded the firearms, pocketed the
remaining cartridges, and returned to the deck, the mate carrying a
small ensign.

"We'll run it up to the main, Becker," he said thickly,--for he
suffered,--ignoring in his excitement the etiquette of the
quarter-deck.

"Aye, aye," said the other, equally unmindful of his breeding. "Will we
go for 'em again?" The problem had defined itself to Mr. Becker. These
men would fight, but not shoot.

"No, no," answered the mate; "not unless they go for us and it's
self-defense. They're not sailors--they don't know where they are. We
don't want to get into trouble. Sailors don't act that way. We'll wait
for the captain or the police." Which, interpreted, and plus the slight
shade of anxiety showing in his disfigured face, meant that Mr. Jackson
was confronted with a new phase of the problem: as to how much more
unsafe it might be to shoot down, on the deck of a ship, men who did
not know where they were, than to shoot down sailors who did. So, while
the uninjured men were assisting the wounded five into the forecastle,
the police flag was run up to the main-truck, and the two mates retired
to the poop to wait and watch.

In a few moments the eleven men came aft in a body, empty-handed,
however, and evidently with no present hostile intention: they had
merely come for their clothes. But that dunnage had not been searched;
and in it might be all sorts of dangerous weapons and equally dangerous
whisky, the possession of which could bring an unpleasant solution to
the problem. So Mr. Jackson and Mr. Becker leveled their pistols over
the poop-rail, and the chief mate roared: "Let those things alone--let
'em alone, or we'll drop some more o' you."

The men halted, hesitated, and sullenly returned to the forecastle.

"Guess they've had enough," said Mr. Becker, jubilantly.

"Don't fool yourself. They're not used to blood-letting, that's all. If
it wasn't for my wife and the kids I'd lower the dinghy and jump her;
and it isn't them I'd run from, either. As it is, I've