But the fellow’s threats had not been without their result. Every hand on the _Port Edes_’ deck had heard them distinctly, and disquiet arose under the belts of nine out of ten. The mates grew nervous and the men inattentive; and, from the bridge, Captain Kettle’s voice and whistle kept ringing out with biting clearness. As it was, only one man attempted to put the warning into practical effect. He was a miserable, half-clad wretch, a coal-trimmer by rating, already repentant of the spell of physical toil which he had signed on for. Passing through the lock-gates into the basin, the steamer’s port quarter swung gently towards the wall. A sailor, in readiness, dropped from above and ran aft with the lanyard of a cork fender. The trimmer jumped on the bulwarks, and one might have thought that he was going to bear a hand—an unnecessary hand. The sailor did so, and cursed him for his officiousness. The donkeyman, however, who was oiling the after-winch, had other ideas on the subject, and stood by for a rush. So it befell when that trimmer was getting himself ready for a spring back on the quay-head, the donkeyman’s long legs took him rapidly across the red iron decks, and when the trimmer was already in mid-air, the donkeyman’s huge paw descended upon the slack of his black breeches, and drew him back as though he possessed the weight of a feather pillow. Whereat the crowd at the pier-head yelled with delighted laughter, and the dingy steamer made her way stolidly on to the muddy waters of the Mersey ebb, which bubbled against the lip of the walls beyond. “Curse you!” snarled the trimmer, “what’s that for?” “Because we’re short-manned in the stokehold already, me son; an’ if there’s a hand goes, it’s meself that’ll have to stand watch and watch in his place. Havin’ got you, I shall be a jintleman now, and slape in my bed at night all the way to New Orleans. See that?” “This mucky old tramp’ll be blowed up sure’s death, and I shall be killed.” “Well, bless me!” retorted the donkeyman; “who’d miss you if you was killed—always supposing you weren’t wanted for our furnaces? Here, get up, you half-baked scum of the workhouse, and tumble below. Thank your stars the old man hasn’t seen you from the bridge. But don’t give me any more of your lip, or I’ll report you to him and the chief to boot. Now, _mosey_.” The coal-trimmer blew his nose on his gray neck-handkerchief, and shambled off below, muttering. The donkeyman returned to his winch, unbent the chain, and sent it down into the adjacent hold. Then he retired to the poop deck-house, where he lived with the carpenter and boatswain, and offered to bet those worthies (who had just come in for dinner) that Captain Kettle shot some one on board before the _Port Edes_ tied up against New Orleans levee.