IN WHICH PHIL FINDS THE TABLES TURNED, AND THE MARIAN RUNS INTO CHICAGO RIVER. "Gorrificious!--Mr. Whippleton!" shouted Peter, as he lay down upon me. "Let him alone, Peter," pleaded Marian, as she rushed to the rope which bound my feet. "Can't do it, miss. Mr. Whippleton will shoot me," answered the cook, in high excitement. Marian cast off the rope which bound me to the cleat, and then untied my feet; but the negro had placed his knee upon my breast, and held me by the throat with both hands. The condition to which I was reduced was desperate, and only desperate measures could redeem me. I began to struggle, and when my feet were free, I began to use them with considerable vigor. But I was very feeble, and with the advantage he had over me, I was not equal even to the old negro. The battle was going against me, and I heard the uncertain movements of Mr. Whippleton in the cabin. Marian wrung her hands in despair, when she saw her resolute effort apparently so signally defeated. Out of breath and out of strength, I was compelled to abandon the struggle as useless; but my fair ally was not so demoralized. She took the tin cup, which the negro used for his drams, and pouring some whiskey from the skipper's bottle, she dashed it into the face of the cook, just as Mr. Whippleton was coming up the steps from the cabin. "Gorrificious!" yelled the negro, blinded by the potent liquor, and smarting with pain in his eyes. I made one more desperate effort to free myself, and as Peter was obliged to use his hands for the comfort of his eyes, I easily shook him off this time. At the same instant the crack of the revolver startled me; but I was not hit. Marian stood near me with a large champagne bottle, from which she had poured the whiskey, in her hand. I seized it, and sprang upon Mr. Whippleton as he aimed his pistol at me the second time. I struck him a heavy blow upon the head with the bottle, and he fell back into the cabin. My strength seemed to come back, as the prospect brightened before me. I descended to the cabin, and proceeded to ascertain the condition of Mr. Whippleton. "Is he dead?" gasped Marian. "No; I think not," as I felt of his pulse, and then of his breast to see if his heart still beat. "O, I hope not," cried she, terrified at the tragedy of which she had become a part. "Gorrificious!" howled Peter, who had been washing his eyes at the side, and was now able to use them again. I picked up Mr. Whippleton's pistol, and returned to the standing-room, to guard against any attack on the part of the cook. "Don't shoot me, Mr. Phil, don't!" cried he. "I won't, if you behave yourself; but if you don't obey all my orders, I will put a bullet through your head. Do you hear me?" "I hear you, Mr. Phil. 'Tain't none of my quarrel, and I don't care nothing at all about it. I obeys orders whoever is in command," he replied, rubbing his eyes with his handkerchief. [Illustration: SKIPPER WHIPPLETON A PRISONER. Page 301.]