a faint, mirthless little laugh, and looked at him
uneasily.

"If ever there was a sponger for baccy, George, it's him," said the
mate, in a confidential whisper.

Captain Zingall, who was at that very moment filling his pipe from
the pouch which the skipper had himself pushed towards him, laid it
carefully on the table again, and gazing steadily at his friend, took
out the tobacco already in his pipe and replaced it. In the silence
which ensued the mate took up the whisky bottle, and pouring the
contents into a tumbler, added a little water, and drank it with relish.

He leaned back on the locker and smacked his lips. There was a faint
laugh from one of the crew, and looking up smartly he seemed to be aware
for the first time of their presence. "What are you doin' down here?" he
roared. "What do you want?"

"Nothin', sir," said the cook. "Only we thought--"

"Get out at once," vociferated the mate, rising.

"Stay where you are," said the skipper, sharply.

"George!" said the mate, in the squeaky voice in which he chose to
personate the skipper.

"Bring him round, Zingall," said the skipper, irritably. "I've had
enough o' this. I'll let 'im know who's who."

With a confident smile Zingall got up quietly from the locker, and
fixed his terrible gaze on the mate. The mate fell back and gazed at him
open-mouthed.

"Who the devil are you staring at?" he demanded, rudely.

Still holding him with his gaze, Zingall clapped his hands together, and
stepping up to him blew strongly in his face. The mate, with a perfect
scream of rage, picked him up by the middle, and dumping him heavily on
the floor, held him there and worried him.

"Help!" cried Zingall, in a smothered voice; "take him off!"

"Why don't you bring him round?" yelled the skipper, excitably. "What's
the good of playing with him?"

Zingall's reply, which was quite irrelevant, consisted almost entirely
of adjectives and improper nouns.

"Blow in 'is face agin, sir," said the cook, bending down kindly.

"Take him off!" yelled Zingall; "he's killing me!"

The skipper flew to the assistance of his friend, but the mate, who was
of gigantic strength and stature, simply backed, and crushed him against
a bulkhead. Then, as if satisfied, he released the crestfallen Zingall,
and stood looking at him.

"Why--don't--you--bring--him--round?" panted the skipper.

"He's out of my control," said Zingall, rising nimbly to his feet. "I've
heard of such cases be