“Oh,” said Jack, cavalierly, “two hurricanes no more come in one month, than two shot in the same hole. We’ve been turtlin’, that’s all. I wish we had in your coppers, cook, some of the critturs that we fell in with in our cruise.” “Wish ’e had, master steward, wid all my heart,” answered the fat, glistening potentate of the galley. “But, hark’ee, Jack; what become of our young mate, can ’e tell? Some say he get kill at ’e Dry Tortugas, and some say he war’ scullin’ round in dat boat you hab, wid ’e young woman, eh?” “Ah, boys,” answered Jack, mournfully, “sure enough, what _has_ become of him?” “You know, why can’t you tell? What good to hab secret among friend.” “_Are_ ye his friends, lads? Do you really feel as if you could give a poor soul in its agony a helpin’ hand?” “Why not?” said Josh, in a reproachful way. “Misser Mulford ’e bess mate dis brig ever get; and I don’t see why Capt. Spike want to be rid of him.” “Because he’s a willian!” returned Jack between his grated teeth. “D’ye know what that means in English, master Josh; and can you and cook here, both of whom have sailed with the man years in and years out, say whether my words be true or not?” “Dat as a body understand ’em. Accordin’ to some rule, Stephen Spike not a werry honest man; but, accordin’ to ’nudder some, he as good as any body else.” “Yes, dat just de upshot of de matter,” put in Simon, approvingly. “De whole case lie in dat meanin’.” “D’ye call it right to leave a human being to starve, or to suffer for water, on a naked rock, in the midst of the ocean?” “Who do dat?” “The willian who is captain of this brig; and all because he thinks young eyes and bloomin’ cheeks prefar young eyes and bloomin’ cheeks to his own grizzly beard and old look-outs.” “Dat bad; dat werry bad,” said Josh, shaking his head, a way of denoting dissatisfaction, in which Simon joined him; for no crime appeared sufficiently grave in the eyes of these two sleek and well-fed officials to justify such a punishment. “Dat mons’ous bad, and cap’in ought to know better dan do _dat_. I nebber starves a mouse, if I catches him in de bread-locker. Now, dat a sort of reason’ble punishment, too; but I nebber does it. If mouse eat my bread, it do seem right to tell mouse dat he hab enough, and dat he must not eat any more for a week, or a mont’, but it too cruel for me, and I nebber does it; no, I t’rows the little debbil overboard, and lets him drown like a gentle’em.” “Y-e-s,” drawled out Simon, in a philanthropical tone of voice, “dat ’e best way. What good it do to torment a fellow critter? If Misser Mulford run, why put him down run, and let him go, I say, on’y mulk his wages: but what good it do anybody to starve him. Now dis is my opinion, gentle’em, and dat is, dat starwation be wuss dan choleric. Choleric kill, I knows, and so does starwation kill; but of de two, gib me de choleric fuss; if I gets well of dat, den try starwation if you can.”