"The life rafts! Old man said the boats were gone."

"Rafts good enough for the likes of us, eh? Well, he's paid for keeping
us down so long. Blime if I don't think Slick Sam killed him."

"The rafts!" Shrieking, calling down maledictions on the captain, they
ran about, when suddenly an angry black wave swept the deck; a few went
overboard with the hissing crest; several were hurled against the
bulwarks, limp, lifeless things, swirled back and forth. One of their
number, a big fellow of unusual strength, was shot toward the open
companionway leading to the main cabin; as he plunged down, he clutched
at and caught the railing. Considerably shaken, dripping with water, he
pulled himself together, and, raising a face, sodden and fierce, like a
beast brought to bay, he looked around him. The light of one or two
swinging lamps that had not yet been shattered revealed dimly the
surroundings, the dark leather upholstering, the little tables.
Uncertainly the convict paused; then suddenly his eyes brightened; the
lustful anticipation of the drunkard who had long been denied shone from
his gaze as it rested on a sideboard across the cabin.

"Bottles!" he said, steadying himself. "Rum! Well, I guess there ain't
much chance for any of us, and a man's a fool to go to hell thirsty!" He
had started toward the sideboard with its bright gleaming ware and its
divers and sundry receptacles of spirits and liqueurs, when suddenly his
look changed, and his jaw fell.

"What the--" A flow of choice Billingsgate, mingled with the sailor's
equally eloquent Golden-Gate, completed the sentence. The convict stood
stock-still.