"You cursed unlucky little imp you!" I burst out, the moment he made his appearance, "What's the meaning of this, sirrah? eh?"--"What is it, if you please, sir?" said Snelling, pretending to hold down his shock-head like a frightened schoolboy, and looking up all the time both at me and the lamp at once, while he swayed with the uneasy heave of the deck in such a way as made me grip him by the arm in a perfect fury, fancying he had got drunk ashore. "You young blackguard you!" said I, shaking him, "didn't I tell you to get hands--didn't you know I meant to--to--" "Oh yes, Mr Collins," gasped the reefer, "I did indeed--you meant to cut and run--I saw it by your eye, sir, and--don't shake me any more, sir, or you'll spoil my hair--and I don't deserve it--it's--all right!" And on my letting him go, the ugly little scamp sunk down on a chair with his eyes starting from his head, and a leer like a perfect demon incarnate; but so perfectly laughable it was, not to mention the air of complete confidence between us that he threw into it, that I sat down myself, ready to grin at my bad luck. "Well, Mister Snelling," said I, quietly, "you _are_ a touch beyond me! Let's have the joke, at least--out with it, man, else another shake may be--" The reefer pointed with his thumb over his shoulder to the cabin, shoved his chin forward, and whispered, "Why, sir, I'm only doubtful whether you could make him third officer--but at any rate, he'll always be useful at a rope, Mr Collins--won't he, sir?" I gave Snelling one look, meant to be as grave as an Old Bailey chaplain's, but it wouldn't do--my conscience wouldn't stand it--in fact the very self-same notion seemed to me to have been creeping into my mind. "You--young--rascal!" was all I could manage to say, before making bolt to go on deck. "By the by, Mister Snelling," said I, turning and looking down from the hatchway, "you must want a glass of grog--tell the boy to let you have some--and go and keep the officer company, sir."