Two of the hands went and peeped furtively down through the skylight. The empty cabin looked strangely quiet and drear, and the door of the state-room stood ajar. There was nothing to satisfy their curiosity, but they came back looking as though they had seen a ghost. “What’s to be done?” said the skipper, helplessly. “Nothing can be done,” said the mate. “He’s beyond our aid.” “I wasn’t thinking about _him_,” said the skipper. “Well, the best thing you can do when we get to Plymouth is to bolt,” said the mate. “We’ll hide it up as long as we can to give you a start. It’s a hanging matter.” The hapless master of the _Fearless_ wiped his clammy brow. “I can’t think he’s dead,” he said slowly. “Who’ll come down with me to see?” “You’d better leave it alone,” said the mate kindly, “it ain’t pleasant, and besides that we can all swear up to the present that you haven’t touched him or been near him.” “Who’ll come down with me?” repeated the skipper. “I believe it’s a trick, and that he’ll start up and serve me, but I feel I must go.” He caught Bill’s eye, and that worthy seaman, after a short tussle with his nerves, shuffled after him. The skipper brushing aside the mate, who sought to detain him, descended first, and entering the cabin stood hesitating, with Bill close behind him. “Just open the door, Bill,” he said slowly. “Arter you, sir,” said the well-bred Bill. The skipper stepped slowly towards it and flung it suddenly open. Then he drew back with a sharp cry and looked nervously about him. _The bed was empty_. “Where’s he gone?” whispered the trembling Bill. “The other made no reply, but in a dazed fashion began to grope about the cabin. It was a small place and soon searched, and the two men sat down and eyed each other in blank amazement. “Where is he?” said Bill at length. The skipper shook his head helplessly, and was about to ascribe the mystery to supernatural agencies, when the truth in all its naked simplicity flashed upon him, and he spoke. “It’s the mate,” he said slowly, “the mate and the cook. I see it all now; there’s never been anybody here. It was a little job on the mate’s part to get the ship. If you want to hear a couple o’ rascals sized up, Bill, come on deck.” And Bill, grinning in anticipation, went. “CHOICE SPIRITS” The day was fine and the breeze so light that the old patched sails were taking the schooner along at a gentle three knots per hour. A sail or two shone like snow in the offing, and a gull hovered in the air astern. From the cabin to the galley, and from the galley to the untidy tangle in the bows, there was no sign of life to benefit by the conversation of the skipper and mate as they discussed a wicked and mutinous spirit which had become observable in the crew. “It’s sheer, rank wickedness, that’s what it is,” said the skipper, a small, elderly man, with grizzled beard and light blue eyes. “Rank,” agreed the mate, whose temperament was laconic.