id Mark, quickly, and he walked forward
again, half amused at his own importance, and thinking of how only the
other day he was at school, and captain of the second cricket eleven,
instead of commodore of two schooners.

As he reached the forecastle hatch he stopped short, for a heavier
breathing than usual caught his ear, and, peering forward, it was to see
that Soup and the naked black who shared his watch were both fast
asleep.

Flushing up with anger, the midshipman took his heavy glass from under
his arm to tap both blacks on the head: but second thoughts stayed his
hand, and he glanced forward to see Tom Fillot's figure dimly as he
leaned over the bulwark staring away ahead.

"They ought to be punished," he thought; "but, poor fellows, they're
tired out. I will not be hard on them."

Stepping to the back of the cask, he reached over to scoop up some of
the water with his right hand to splash over them, and wake them up
unseen, and then he felt quite a shock, for his hand did not touch
water.

He thought the cask was filled right up. Then he was sure of it. Yes,
filled quite full. Softly reaching over a little more, he tried again,
but still could not reach.

"It's more than half empty," he said to himself; and, listening
intently, he could hear a trickling sound, and then a faint splash
somewhere below.

The lad's heart began to throb heavily, and stepping away from the
hatch, he walked on tiptoe to where Tom Fillot stood close to the
bowsprit, and laid his hand upon the man's shoulder.

Tom Fillot started round fiercely.

"Oh! you, sir," he said in a tone of relief. "I thought--"

"Hist! Fetch up the other fellows quietly-armed."

"What's up, sir?"

"The Yanks have bored a hole through into the bottom of the cask, and
the water's nearly out."

Tom ran aft, barefooted, and without a sound, while Mark stepped back to
the hatch, and reached over to feel for the water once more.

As he did so, and was straining over, with the edge of the cask against
his armpit, he distinctly felt it heave up, as if men were busy raising
it from below.

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

METHODICAL MADNESS.

Those were thrilling moments in the darkness, as one side of the cask
was heaved up and let down again, probably to try its weight, for it was
by no means empty, and the water within washed to and fro, and then made
whispering noises as it subsided, but the trickling sound went on.

Then came, faintly heard