“Just a little in the bottom of the bottle ’ll do,” continued the mate; “don’t put more in, for he drinks like a fish.” “I never said such a thing, cap’n,” said Bradd, in an agitated whisper. “I never thought o’ such a thing.” “No, I know you wouldn’t,” said Zingall, who was staring hard at a nearly empty whisky bottle on the table. “And don’t leave your baccy pouch lying about, George,” continued the mate, in a thrilling whisper. The skipper gave a faint, mirthless little laugh, and looked at him uneasily. “If ever there was a sponger for baccy, George, it’s him,” said the mate, in a confidential whisper. Captain Zingall, who was at that very moment filling his pipe from the pouch which the skipper had himself pushed towards him, laid it carefully on the table again, and gazing steadily at his friend, took out the tobacco already in his pipe and replaced it. In the silence which ensued the mate took up the whisky bottle, and pouring the contents into a tumbler, added a little water, and drank it with relish. He leaned back on the locker and smacked his lips. There was a faint laugh from one of the crew, and looking up smartly he seemed to be aware for the first time of their presence. “What are you doin’ down here?” he roared. “What do you want?” “Nothin’, sir,” said the cook. “Only we thought—” “Get out at once,” vociferated the mate, rising. “Stay where you are,” said the skipper, sharply. “George!” said the mate, in the squeaky voice in which he chose to personate the skipper. “Bring him round, Zingall,” said the skipper, irritably. “I’ve had enough o’ this. I’ll let ’im know who’s who.” With a confident smile Zingall got up quietly from the locker, and fixed his terrible gaze on the mate. The mate fell back and gazed at him open-mouthed. “Who the devil are you staring at?” he demanded, rudely. Still holding him with his gaze, Zingall clapped his hands together, and stepping up to him blew strongly in his face. The mate, with a perfect scream of rage, picked him up by the middle, and dumping him heavily on the floor, held him there and worried him. “Help!” cried Zingall, in a smothered voice; “take him off!” “Why don’t you bring him round?” yelled the skipper, excitably. “What’s the good of playing with him?” Zingall’s reply, which was quite irrelevant, consisted almost entirely of adjectives and improper nouns. “Blow in ’is face agin, sir,” said the cook, bending down kindly. “Take him off!” yelled Zingall; “he’s killing me!” The skipper flew to the assistance of his friend, but the mate, who was of gigantic strength and stature, simply backed, and crushed him against a bulkhead. Then, as if satisfied, he released the crestfallen Zingall, and stood looking at him. “Why—don’t—you—bring—him—round?” panted the skipper. “He’s out of my control,” said Zingall, rising nimbly to his feet. “I’ve heard of such cases before. I’m only new at the work, you know, but I dare say, in a couple of years’ time—”