"Wall, you can bet your moccasins I'm goin' to pack 'round a six-shooter in future. That 'ere Lobu springs his little game on us that headlong an' sudden, an' puts sech fervor into it, that he comes near callin' a show-down on the crowd; an' in the event of his scoutin' off on the war-path again, I reckon I'll plant some lead amongst his idees, an' sober him some," pronounced Broncho. "He don't look any too safe," said Jim, as Lobu, having recovered his breath, began to scowl and mutter to himself. "I'm an Apache if he ain't hungerin' to begin his butchery again," drawled Broncho; "he's shore due to inaug'rate a holycaust if we turns him loose." "Heart no bad! Head bad!" said Tari sadly. "Mebbe, son, mebbe. But he ain't sedentary enough to go skallyhootin' 'round onfettered; he's a heap too vivid an' high-sperited, an' is liable to crease one of us mavericks." "Better put him in the forepeak and clap the hatch on over him," proposed Jack. "He's cert'nly too apparent on the scenery where he is," declared the cowboy. Jack's idea was finally acted on. Lobu and his ebony idol were relegated to the forepeak, and once more serenity prevailed. With sunset the wind died down considerably, and the long swell caused the _Ocmulgee_ to roll heavily. Night descended. The sky became one sparkling mantle of stars, and the sea, in heavy black ridges, lumbered in from the westward, slow and dignified, the last relics of the Roaring Forties. At each lurch of the vessel her canvas thumped against the masts and rigging, giving forth a sound like the cracking of an Australian stockwhip. The dark form of the cowboy at the wheel swayed slowly backwards and forwards across the glittering moonlight as the vessel rolled. The flare of the galley fire peeped forth forward in shafts of yellow light. The silent decks were striped with cold moonbeams and inky shadows, weird and eerie-looking, the great whale-jaws at the companion giving a grotesque appearance to the after part of the barque. Occasionally the top of a roller would slop in through a port, and ripple across the sloping deck like a stream of shining silver. Reclining on the locker which ran round the cabin skylight lay Jack Derringer, pipe in mouth, lazily watching his beloved stars. Forward the Kanaka Tari could be seen flitting backwards and forwards across the shaft of light from the galley, busily engaged in gathering fuel from the fore 'tween-decks. Presently he went forward, and lifting the hatch of the forepeak, looked down into the gloom, where lay the poor madman. As he bent over the hatch a heavy volume of smoke poured forth, enveloping his face and causing him to cough. Hastily withdrawing his head he rushed aft, crying in his strange, broken English: "Shippe burn! shippe burn! Lobu settee fire shippe!" Up jumped Jack, quick to think and quick to act.