“Snowball,” said Bottle-Jack, “you’ve not told us _your_ taste. Now you’re impartial, you are, a-cause you can’t belong to either side. What say ye, man? Red or white? Sing out and hoist your ensign!” The black nodded, grinned, and voted— “Iss! berry well,” said he; “I like ’em white berry well; like ’em red berry better!” At this interesting juncture the men were a good deal surprised by an order from the Captain to “turn all hands up and shorten sail.” They rose from the deck, wondering and grumbling. Two or three, who had been sleeping below, came tumbling up with astonished faces and less willing steps than usual. All seemed more or less discontented, and muttered to each other that “the skipper must be mad to shorten sail at midnight with a bright moon, and in a light breeze, falling every moment to a calm!” They went about the job somewhat unwillingly, and indeed were so much less ready than usual as to draw a good deal of animadversion from the deck. Something in this style— “Now, my lads, bear a hand, and look smart. Foretop there! What are you about with that foretopsail? Lower away on your after-haulyards! Easy! Hoist on those forehaulyards, ye lubbers! Away with it, men! Altogether, and _with a will_! Why, you are going to sleep over it! I’d have done it smarter with the crew of a collier!” To all such remonstrances, it is needless to say, the well-disciplined Slap-Jack made no reply; only once, finding a moment to look to windward from his elevated position as captain of the foretop, and observing a white mist-like scud low down on the horizon, he whispered quietly to his mate, then busied himself with a reef-knot— “Blowed if he bain’t right, arter all, Jem! We’ll be under courses afore the sun’s up. If we don’t strike topmasts, they’ll be struck for us, I shouldn’t wonder. I see _him_ once afore,” explained Slap-Jack, jerking his head in the direction of the coming squall; “and he’s a snorter, mate, that’s about wot _he_ is!”