before, when safety was within reach--a safety which was now
gone forever.

It was mid-afternoon that brought the little old sailor, who
had been felled by the captain a few days before, to where
Clayton and his wife stood by the ship's side watching the
ever diminishing outlines of the great battleship. The old
fellow was polishing brasses, and as he came edging along until
close to Clayton he said, in an undertone:

"'Ell's to pay, sir, on this 'ere craft, an' mark my word for
it, sir. 'Ell's to pay."

"What do you mean, my good fellow?" asked Clayton.

"Wy, hasn't ye seen wats goin' on? Hasn't ye 'eard that
devil's spawn of a capting an' is mates knockin' the bloomin'
lights outen 'arf the crew?

"Two busted 'eads yeste'day, an' three to-day. Black
Michael's as good as new agin an' 'e's not the bully to
stand fer it, not 'e; an' mark my word for it, sir."

"You mean, my man, that the crew contemplates mutiny?"
asked Clayton.

"Mutiny!" exclaimed the old fellow. "Mutiny! They means
murder, sir, an' mark my word for it, sir."

"When?"