streamed down the forward companionway. The door to Vail's room
across was open, and Williams, working in nervous haste, was putting
it in order. Walking up and down, his shrewd eyes keenly alert,
Charlie Jones was on guard, revolver in hand. He came over to me at
once.

"Turner is moving, in there," he said, jerking his thumb toward the
forward cabin. "What are you going to do? Let a drunken sot like
that give us orders, and bang us with a belaying pin when we don't
please him?"

"He is the owner. But one thing we can do, Jones. We can keep him
from more liquor. Williams!"

He came out, more dead than alive.

"Williams," I said sternly, "I give you an hour to get rid of every
ounce of liquor on the Ella. Remember, not a bottle is to be saved."

"But Mistah Turner--"

"I'll answer to Mr. Turner. Get it overboard before he gets around.
And, Williams!"

"Well?"--sullenly.

"I'm going around after you, and if I find so much as a pint, I'll
put you in that room you have just left, and lock you in."

He turned even grayer, and went into the storeroom.