He heard the three Jacks creeping along the deck overhead, he heard low whispers and a smothered laugh, followed by a few brief expostulations as to priority of disembarkation, the language far less polite than the intention; lastly, he heard the tackle by which his boat was made fast running gently over its blocks. Then he cocked his pistol without noise, and laughed to himself. Gradually the cabin window was obscured. A dark object passed smoothly down, and revealed in its progress a human figure indistinctly visible above its black horizontal mass, which was indeed the slow-descending boat, containing no less a personage than the adventurous Slap-Jack; also two lines of tackle were dimly visible supporting that boat’s head. A turn of the body, as he covered them steadily with his pistol, enabled the Captain to bring these two lines into one. Hand and eye were equally true. He was sure of his mark before he pulled the trigger. With a flash that lighted up the cabin, and an explosion that filled it with smoke, the bullet cut clean through the “falls,” or ropes, supporting the boat’s head, bringing her perpendicularly on end, and shooting every article she contained—planks, bottom-boards, stretchers, oars, boat-hook, an empty hen-coop, and the astonished occupant—plump into seven fathom of water. Nor was the consternation created by this alarming capsize confined to the unfortunate Slap-Jack. His comrades, lowering away industriously from the taffrail, started back in the utmost bewilderment, the anchor-watch rushed aft, persuaded a mutiny had broken out, and in grievous indecision whether to take the skipper’s part or assist in cutting his throat. The crew tumbled up the hatchway, and blundered about the deck, asking each other absurd questions, and offering wild suggestions, if anything were really amiss, as to breaking open the spirit-room. Nay, the harbour-guard himself awoke from his nap, emerged from his sentry-box, took a turn on the quay, hailing loudly, and receiving no answer, was satisfied he had been dreaming, so swore and turned in again. Captain George reloaded his pistol, and sang out lustily, “Man overboard! Show a light on the deck there, and heave a rope over the side. Bear a hand to haul him in, the lubber! I don’t much think he’ll want to try that game in a hurry again!” Meanwhile, hapless Slap-Jack was incapacitated for the present from that, or indeed any other game involving physical effort. A plank, falling with him out of the boat, had struck him on the head and stunned him; seventy fathom of water would have floated him no better than seven, and with the first plunge he went down like a stone. Captain George had intended to give him a fright and a ducking; but now, while he stretched his body out of the cabin window, peering over the gloomy water and listening eagerly for the snort and gasp of a swimmer who never came up, he wished with all his heart that his hand had been less steady on the pistol.