h of the fun, advancing his left, delivered another
terrific drive from the shoulder that tumbled Mr Flinders backwards
under the hood of the booby hatch, where he nearly floored Captain
Snaggs, on his way up from the cuddy--the skipper having been also
aroused by the tumult, the scene of the battle being almost immediately
over his swinging cot, and the concussion of the first-mate's head
against the deck having awakened him before his time, which naturally
did not tend to improve his temper.

"Hillo, ye durned Cape Cod sculpin!" he gasped out, Mr Flinders'
falling body having caught him full in the stomach and knocked all the
wind out of him. "Thet's a kinder pretty sorter way to come tumblin'
down the companion, like a mad bull in fly time! What's all this
infarnal muss about, hey?"

So shouting, between his pauses to take breath, the skipper shoved the
mate before him out of the hatchway, repeating his question again when
both had emerged on the poop. "Now, what's this infarnal muss about,
hey?"

Taken thus in front and rear Mr Flinders hardly knew what to say,
especially as Jan Steenbock's fist had landed on his mouth, loosening
his teeth and making the blood flow, his countenance now presenting a
pitiable spectacle, all battered and bleeding.

"The--the--thet durned skallawag thaar hit me, sirree," he stammered and
stuttered, spitting out a mouthful of blood and a couple of his front
teeth, which had been driven down his throat almost by Jan Steenbock's
powerful blow. "He--he tried to--to take my life. He did so, cap.
But, I guess I'll be even with him, by thunder!--I'll soon rip my bowie
inter him, an' settle the coon; I will so, you bet!"

Mr Flinders fumbled at his waistbelt as he spoke, trying to pull out
the villainous-looking, dagger-hilted knife he always carried there,
fixed in a sheath stuck inside the back of his trousers; but his rage
and excitement making his hand tremble with nervous trepidation, Captain
Snaggs was able to catch his arm in time and prevent his drawing the
ugly weapon.

"No ye don't, mister; no ye don't, by thunder! so long's I'm boss hyar,"
cried the skipper. "Ef ye fits aboord my shep, I reckon ye'll hev to
fit fair, or else reckon up with Ephraim O Snaggs; yes, so, mister,
thet's so. I'll hev no knifing aboord my ship!"

The captain appeared strangely forgetful of his own revolver practice in
the case of poor Sam Jedfoot, and also of his having ran a-muck and
nearly