"Here, you men, pass this mess chest below," interrupted an officer,
beckoning to us. "Bill" grasped one end of the object indicated and
lugged it to the hatch.

"They took the lazy man to the village graveyard, as I was saying,"
resumed "Bill," "and they buried him up to his neck in the earth. Then
they hid back of tombstones and----"

"Less talking there, men," exclaimed the navigator, hurrying past us.
"You 'heroes' do too much yarning to suit me. Get those things below at
once. Shake it up."

"They are in an almighty hurry," grumbled "Bill." "The forts won't move.
They'll be there to-morrow, I guess. Well, as I was saying, the
villagers concealed themselves behind convenient tombstones and waited
to see what the lazy man would do when he woke up. By and by day broke,
and just as the sun gilded the windows of the old church the fellow who
was buried up to his neck----"

"Chase those mess chests below, bullies," called out the boatswain's
mate, dropping down the ladder a few feet away. "Lively there; the 'old
man' wants to break a record. When you have finished, hustle to the oil
and paint lockers and help carry all inflammable material to the spar
deck."

For several minutes "Bill" worked away in silence. Between us we managed
to lower a number of chests into the hold where they would be out of the
way; then we disposed of more objects liable to produce unwelcome
splinters, and finally we started toward the paint locker.