‘Here comes Punch, I do believe,’ said he with a good-natured laugh. As he spoke, up rose the figure of Colonel Bannister from the quarter-deck. His face was red with temper, his eyes sparkled, and his white whiskers stood out like spikes of light from a flame. We happened to be the first persons he came across as he climbed the ladder. ‘Of all infernal instruments,’ he cried, ‘the piano is the worst. What on earth, I should like to know, do shipowners mean by adding that execrable piece of furniture to the cabin accommodation? The moment I sit down to write up my diary, twang-twang goes that scoundrel Jew’s harp; and as if that noise were not enough, a woman must needs fall a-squealing to it; and then, when I think that the row is over for a bit, and I pick up my pen afresh, some chap with a voice like a tormented hog lets fly.’ ‘You should write to the _Times_, sir,’ said Mr. Johnson. The colonel gave him a look full of marlinespikes and corkscrews, and walked aft on his short stiff legs to the captain, with whom I heard him expostulating in very strong language. Presently the tiffin-bell rang, and I went below. CHAPTER VII A SEA FUNERAL The doctor sat on the starboard side of the table, and I caught him eyeing me with a meaning expression that somewhat puzzled me. Once, indeed, he winked, and fearing that he might be a little tipsy and easily led into a demonstrativeness of manner sufficiently marked to catch the skipper’s attention, I took some pains not to see him. Old Keeling, at the head of the table, his face shining like a mahogany figure-head under a fresh coat of varnish, was in the middle of the story of his action with the corsair in the Bay of Bengal, when Mr. Prance entered the cuddy and quietly took his seat. He fell to work upon a piece of corned beef whilst he seemed to listen with a face of respectful courtesy to Keeling’s long-winded yarn, with its running commentary of ‘How brave!’ ‘What dreadful creatures!’ ‘How very awful!’ and the like from the ladies. The skipper came to an end, and Mr. Prance said to me: ‘A plucky fight, sir.’ ‘Very,’ said I, watching for that twinkle of eye which his voice suggested. ‘The best of an engagement of that sort,’ he exclaimed, ‘is that you may go on fighting it over and over again without loss of blood. By the way, talking of pirates, the captain has yet to be informed that one of them lies dead aboard his ship.’ I stared at him. ‘A fellow named Crabb,’ he began. ‘What!’ I interrupted; ‘is Crabb dead then?’ It was now his turn to stare. ‘Do you know the man, Mr. Dugdale?’ ‘Why, yes,’ I answered, ‘as the ugliest creature (heaven rest his soul, since he _is_ dead!) that ever encountered mortal gaze.’ ‘But how did you learn that his name was Crabb, and that he was dying? for _that_ you seem to have guessed also, judging from your question?’