"I ain't sayin' but that if Studpoker Bob's got consumption prowlin' around him, it ain't been an' staked out its claim an' started in to work diggin' out his innards by now, after the energy the bosun displays on him," went on Ben. "And that ain't no bluff, neither. The bosun shore puts a heap o' zest into the game, an' after bein' upheaved an' jumped on that-away, I reckons Bob don't get so much bliss as he did," agreed Broncho. At this moment, Jim, who had just been to strike one bell, dived in glistening with wet. "It's blowin' up hard; it'll be 'All hands to the crojjick' at eight bells, the bosun says," he announced. "What's that, sonny? All hands at eight bells? An' it's our first watch below! Hell take the sea, anyhow," growled old Ben. "We're in for a night of it. Listen to the wind," observed Curly. There was a general rush for oilskins and rubbers. "You'll want lashings on your oilskins to-night, Broncho," remarked Jack, as he knotted a deep-sea lashing round his waist. "An' what's the aim in life o' these here lashin's?" "Ter keep the bloomin' water out, er course," jerked out the cockney, as he struggled with a sea-boot. "Where's that 'ere sufferin', consumption-stricken gent, Studpoker Bob, all this time?" asked old Ben, looking round the foc's'le. "He's warmin' an' repa'rin' himself in the galley, and havin' a chin-chin with Lung," returned Jim. "And he calls himself an American citizen," grunted Ben, in great disgust. "I'd sooner exchange views with a pra'rie-dog or a gopher than one o' them heathens from the Orient. They're all right to wash clothes or toss flapjacks or sech-like plays, but to shake dice with 'em--no, sirree, that's what I calls plumb degradin'." As he spoke the thundering voice of the bosun was heard. "A-l-l h-a-n-d-s s-h-o-r-t-e-n s-a-i-l!" Sure enough it was about time, for the wind was shrieking through the rigging with more strength every minute, and at every plunge the heavily pressed vessel sent the sprays right over her. The lee-scuppers were full, and a succession of dollops poured over the weather rail. CHAPTER XI "THE STORMFIEND" "Crojjick buntlines and clew-garnets!" roared Black Davis. The men stumbled clumsily round the fife-rail and groped about in the darkness for the right ropes; then, like sundry tug-of-war teams, stood waiting for the word. "Ready with your tack there, bosun?" called the mate. "Aye, aye, sir!" "Haul away!" came the order. "Hoo-oop, come in with her! Ho-yah, an' she must!" sang Jack, giving time to the hauling. "Hand over hand, hand over hand!" yelled the bosun. "Yo-ho-yo-ho-oh-yo-har!" Swish! and a green sea tumbled aboard, washing the men at the clew-garnet off their legs. "Bedad, an' it's could!" gasped Pat. "Thet'll do, y'r weather buntlines; haul away to leeward!" called the mate. "Hy-ei-ei-ei-ei-ei!" came the swelling chorus, the note rising at each pull.