There was a pause that marked Hudson's astonishment. Then he broke out,
"Child's play, ye lubber! If you had been there your gills would have
been as white as your Sunday shirt; and a d--d deal whiter."

"Come, be civil," said Wylie, "I tell you all the ways you have told me
are too suspicious. Our governor is a highflyer. He pays like a prince,
and, in return, he must not be blown on, if it is ever so little.
'Wylie,' says he, 'a breath of suspicion would kill me.' 'Make it so
much,' says I, 'and that breath shall never blow on you. No, no, skipper;
none of those ways will do for us; they have all been worked twice too
often. It must be done in fair weather, and in a way-- Fill your glass
and I'll fill mine-- Capital rum this. You talk of my gills turning
white; before long we shall see whose keeps their color best, mine or
yours, my boy."

There was a silence, during which Hudson was probably asking himself what
Wylie meant; for presently he broke out in a loud but somewhat quivering
voice: "Why, you mad, drunken devil of a ship's carpenter, red-hot from
hell, I see what you are at, now; you are going--"

"Hush!" cried Wylie, alarmed in his turn. "Is this the sort of thing to
bellow out for the watch to hear? Whisper, now."

This was followed by the earnest mutterings of two voices. In vain did
the listener send his very soul into his ear to hear. He could catch no
single word. Yet he could tell, by the very tones of the speakers, that
the dialogue was one of mystery and importance.

Here was a situation at once irritating and alarming; but there was no