“Yes, why don’t you?” asked Chub, eagerly. “I’ve been looking forward all along for a mutiny. I wish to put some one in irons and confine him in the lazaret.” “Lazaret nothing!” protested Dick. “The lazaret is where they put sick folks.” “Dickums,” responded Chub, superiorly, “without wishing to hurt your feelings I’d like to say that you show a lamentable ignorance regarding things--er--nautical. Let me prescribe for you a short course of Clark Russell, W. H. G. Kingston, and Marryat.” “I’ve read as many of Marryat’s as you have,” replied Dick, in injured tones. “And I know that a lazaret is a hospital.” “On some ships maybe, Dickums,” answered Chub, amiably, “but not on the _Slow Poke_. And speaking of that, fellows, we haven’t changed her name yet. I thought we were going to get some paint and fix it.” “Well, you’re captain,” answered Roy. “If I am not in error,” responded Chub, with dignity, “it is the able seaman that does the painting, and not the captain.” “The original question,” said Dick, “was, do we go on or do we stay here?” “We go on,” answered Chub. “If it stops raining before five o’clock we’ll go on to-day. I, too, would visit new scenes. Besides, we must get somewhere where we can post that note to Harry. Also, I shall buy a newspaper and find out what the date is. Why, for all we know, to-day may be yesterday or to-morrow. Think of eating yesterday’s supper to-day!” “I don’t want to kick,” said Dick, “but I think it would be jolly nice to stop somewhere and get a good meal. It’s all right for you fellows, because you don’t have to cook everything we have, but I’m getting tired of eating my own cooking.” Chub bounded out of his chair and pointed dramatically at Dick. “Mutiny!” he cried. “Mutiny at last! Put him in irons, Roy; put him in irons! Happy I am that I’ve lived to see this day!” “Who’ll cook supper?” asked Roy. “Oh, we’ll let him go before it’s time to cook supper. Get the irons, Roy.” “Where are they?” Chub struck his forehead in despair, and sank back into his seat. “Lost! lost! all is lost! We forgot to bring any irons!” “We might keel-haul him or hang him from the yardstick,” suggested Roy, hopefully. “You mean yardarm, of course,” said Dick. “But there isn’t any, and I don’t believe we’ve got a keel that deserves the name. So you’ll have to think of something else. Meanwhile, I’m going to get this chap out of trouble.” And he took up his book again. “If he only showed the least bit of remorse,” sighed Chub, observing him sadly, “I might be merciful. But this--this shameless effrontery pains me. I tell you what, Roy, we’ll sentence him to make an omelet for supper.” “We haven’t any eggs,” said Dick, without looking up from his book. Chub cast his eyes to heaven and groaned tragically. “No eggs! no irons! Ye gods! haven’t we any of the necessities of life on this ship? What have we got, Dick?”