The mate got up, fuming and knocking his pipe out with great violence against the side of the schooner, stamped up and down the deck two or three times, and then, despairing of regaining his accustomed calm on board, went ashore. It was late when he returned. A light burnt in the cabin, and the skipper with his spectacles on was reading aloud from an old number of the _Evangelical Magazine_ to a thin, white-faced man dressed in black. “That’s my mate,” said the skipper, looking up from his book. “Is he one of our band?” inquired the stranger. The skipper shook his head despondently. “Not yet,” said the stranger encouragingly. “Seen too many of ’em,” said the mate bluntly. “The more I see of ’em, the less I like ’em. It makes me feel wicked to look at ’em.” “Ah, that ain’t you speaking now, it’s the Evil One,” said Mr. Hutchins confidently. “I s’pose you know ’im pretty well,” said the mate simply. “I lived with him thirty years,” said Mr. Hutchins solemnly, “then I got tired of him.” “I should think he got a bit sick too,” said the mate. “Thirty days ’ud ha’ been too long for me.” He went to his berth to give Mr. Hutchins time to frame a suitable reply and returned with a full bottle of whisky and a tumbler, and having drawn the cork with a refreshing pop, mixed himself a stiff glass and lit his pipe. Mr. Hutchins with a deep groan gazed reproachfully at the skipper and shook his head at the bottle. “You know I don’t like you to bring that filthy stuff in the cabin, George,” said the skipper. “It’s not for me,” said the mate flippantly. “It’s for the Evil One. He ses the sight of his old pal ’Utchins ’as turned his stomach.” He glanced at the stranger and saw to his astonishment that he appeared to be struggling with a strong desire to laugh. His lips tightened and his shifty little eyes watered, but he conquered himself in a moment, and rising to his feet delivered a striking address—in favor of teetotalism. He condemned whisky as not only wicked, but unnecessary, declaring with a side glance at the mate that two acidulated drops dissolved in water were an excellent substitute. The sight of the whisky appeared to madden him, and the skipper sat spell-bound at his eloquence, until at length, after apostrophising the bottle in a sentence which left him breathless, he snatched it up and dashed it to pieces on the floor. For a moment the mate was struck dumb with fury, then with a roar he leaped up and rushed for the lecturer, but the table was between them, and before he could get over it the skipper sprang up and seizing him by the arm, pushed him into the state-room. “Lea’ go,” foamed the mate. “Let me get at him.” “George,” said the skipper, still striving with him, “I’m ashamed of you.” “Ashamed, be damned,” yelled the mate struggling. “What did he chuck my whisky away for?”