"Oh, cheer up, old Sunday-school teacher," replied Stanley, good-naturedly. "I had reason enough for killing the slob. He hit me first, for one thing. Then there was a girl in the case--a little brown girl, who wouldn't look at a dirty brute like him, for all that he told to the contrary. He was ship's bully until he got aft to the cabin." He emptied his glass, and looked, with an expression of bored expectancy, toward the darkest corner of the room. "It's about time for him now," he said, "but maybe you don't believe in ghosts. He favours me with a sight of his ugly mug almost every night. Can you see him there?" Hemming turned with a start, but only black shadows were in the corner. Stanley laughed. "What a pity," he said, "for I am sure you would be more interested than I." Hemming drew close to the fire, and, when his back was turned, Stanley, with a wary eye on the shadows, grabbed the decanter of Scotch and gulped down a quantity of the raw liquor. In a moment he seemed himself again. He set the decanter softly back upon the table, and, with his hands in his trousers pockets, moved over to the window and looked out at the cold roofs, level against the dawn, and at the lift of the silent chimneys. His jaws were set hard, swelling the muscles under the swarthy skin. He feared a hand upon his shoulder--the heavy touch of a thick, toil-worn hand. He awaited, dreading, the rank breath of the dead seaman against his ear. Presently he turned his head, and looked again at the shadowy corner. It was lighter now. But crouched there close to the floor, as he had crouched upon the hot deck, with red hands knuckle down, and blood upon the ugly, upturned face, was the bully of the barque. The candles burned softly, throwing their kindly radiance upon books and pictures. Hemming sat by the fire, puzzled, but at peace. Wrenching his gaze from the hideous apparition beyond, Stanley looked enviously at Hemming--at the clean, brave face, whereon hardships and adventures had hardened not a line. Hemming fell asleep in his chair. When he opened his eyes, the room was full of sunlight and his guest had gone. He could hear O'Rourke splashing and singing in his bath, and Smith stood at his elbow with a cup of tea. CHAPTER IV. "THE DEAR, DEAR WITCHERY OF SONG" The two friends sat late over their breakfast. "If anything happens to me before night, will you see that I am decently buried?" said O'Rourke. "I don't see what more is to happen to you--except bankruptcy," retorted Hemming.