There was no reply, and jumping to the conclusion that he was above, the
captain tumbled up the steps and gained the deck, which, as far as he
could see, was in the same deserted condition as when he left it.
Anxious to get some idea of the time, he staggered to the side and
looked over. The tide was almost at the turn, and the steady clank,
clank of neighbouring windlasses showed that other craft were just
getting under weigh. A barge, its red light turning the water to blood,
with a huge wall of dark sail, passed noiselessly by, the indistinct
figure of a man leaning skilfully upon the tiller.

As these various signs of life and activity obtruded themselves upon the
skipper of the Smiling Jane, his wrath rose higher and higher as he
looked around the wet, deserted deck of his own little craft. Then he
walked forward and thrust his head down the forecastle hatchway.

As he expected, there was a complete sleeping chorus below; the deep
satisfied snoring of half-a-dozen seamen, who, regardless of the tide
and their captain's feelings, were slumbering sweetly, in blissful
ignorance of all that the Lancet might say upon the twin subjects of
overcrowding and ventilation.

"Below there, you lazy thieves!" roared the captain; "tumble up, tumble
up!"

The snores stopped. "Ay, ay!" said a sleepy voice. "What's the matter,
master?"

"Matter!" repeated the other, choking violently. "Ain't you going to
sail to-night?"