On the third day the weather was quiet. It was shortly before the hour of noon. A light swell was flowing out of the north, but the breeze was about northwest, and the brig was pushing through it under studding-sails. The men were preparing to get their dinner, one of the Dutch seamen at the wheel, and Greaves and I standing side by side, each with a quadrant in his hand. “I wish,” exclaimed the captain, “that something would come along--something to receive Van Laar! The fancy of that fellow confined in his berth is not very agreeable to me. Jimmy tells me that he smokes all day; that he removes the pipe from his mouth merely to eat. Then, indeed, the pipe is for some time out of his mouth.” “Sail ho!” I exclaimed at that instant; for, while he addressed me, my gaze was upon the sea over the lee bow, and there, like a hovering feather, hung a sail. Greaves looked at her, and exclaimed: “I hope she is coming this way. I hope she is homeward bound, and that she will receive Van Laar.” We applied our eyes to our quadrants, made eight bells, and, leaving Yan Bol to keep a lookout, went below. “How am I to foist Van Laar upon a ship’s captain?” said he, as we entered his berth to work out the latitude. “Is he a passenger? Then he must pay. But Van Laar is not a man to pay, and not one doit shall I be willing to pay for him. Is he a distressed mariner whom we have picked up? No. What is he but an inefficient officer, full of mutiny, beef, tobacco, and schnapps? I may find difficulty in persuading a captain to take him. I hope it may not come to it, but I fear I shall be forced to throw him overboard.” We worked out the latitude and entered the cabin. Galloon sat upon his chair at the table, watching Jimmy lay the cloth for dinner. “What are you going to give us to eat, Jimmy?” said the captain. “Oh, I know, master,” replied the lad with his foolish smile; and here I observed that Galloon looked at him. “It’s roast beef to-day, master.” “There is no fresh beef in the ship; therefore we are not going to have roast beef for dinner. Corned beef it is, not roast beef. Say corned beef, not roast beef.” The boy, stiffening himself into the posture of a private soldier at sight of his officer, cried in a groaning voice: “Say corned beef, not roast beef!” and Galloon howled in sympathy. “Again, if you please.” “Say corned beef, not roast beef!” bawled the youth; and Galloon’s howl rose high in suffering. “Once more.” The boy bellowed, and the dog’s accompaniment made a horrible duet. Scarcely had the noise ceased when Van Laar opening his door, put his head out, and cried: “Vhas dere cornedt beef ready?” “You will give that man ship’s bread for his dinner,” said Greaves calmly. “If he shows his nose again I will have a hammock slung for him in the lazarette--the lazarette or the fore-peak--he may take his choice; but the hatch will be kept on.” These words had no sooner left the captain’s lips than Van Laar came out of his berth.