walked to the scuttle butt, procured a dipperful of water and threw it
into the gory, battered face. Matt Peasley had simply walked round
him and, with the advantage of a superior reach, had systematically
cut Captain Ole Peterson to strings and ribbons.

He held up the blood-soaked gloves for Mr. Murphy to untie the
strings, the while he sniffed a little afternoon breeze that had just
sprung up, blowing straight for the open sea.

"When he comes to, Mr. Murphy," he ordered calmly, "escort him to your
old room. Have one of the men stow his dunnage there also; and tell
him if he shows his nose on deck until I give him permission, he shall
have another taste of the same. Mr. Consul, I should be highly
honored if you would step into my cabin and hoist one to our own dear
native land."

"With pleasure," the consul replied. "Though I cannot, in my capacity
as a citizen of the United States, endorse your--er--mutiny,
nevertheless, as a United States consul at Cape Town I shall take
pleasure in certifying to the fact that the fallen gladiator was the
aggressor, that he did not present his credentials, and that you had
no official knowledge of his identity."

"I wish you would make an affidavit to that effect, under the seal of
the Consulate, and mail it to me at Hoquiam, Washington, U. S. A.,"
Matt pleaded, as they reached his cabin. He reached into poor old
Cap'n Noah's little private locker. "I've a suspicion, sir, I'm going
to need your affidavit very badly."

"I shall do so, Mr. Peasley. May I inquire what you purpose doing