Red of face he marched to the window and stood looking out. Fortified by his presence, Hartley rang the bell. “Is there anybody in the kitchen?” he inquired, as Rosa answered it. “I fancied I heard a man’s voice.” “The milkman was here just now,” said Rosa, and, eying him calmly, departed. The captain swung round in wrathful amazement. “By——,” he spluttered; “I’ve seen—well—by—b-r-r-r—— Can I ring for that d——d bo’sun o’ mine?” “Certainly,” said Hartley. The captain crossed to the fireplace and, seizing the bell-handle, gave a pull that made the kitchen resound with wild music. After a decent interval, apparently devoted to the allaying of masculine fears, Rosa appeared again. “Did you ring, sir?” she inquired, gazing at her master. “Send that bo’sun o’ mine here at once!” said the captain, gruffly. Rosa permitted herself a slight expression of surprise. “Bo’sun, sir?” she asked, politely. “Yes.” The girl affected to think. “Oh, you mean Mr. Walters?” she said, at last. “Send him here,” said the captain. Rosa retired slowly, and shortly afterward something was heard brushing softly against the wall of the passage. It ceased for a time, and just as the captain’s patience was nearly at an end there was a sharp exclamation, and Mr. Walters burst suddenly into the room and looked threateningly over his shoulder at somebody in the passage. “What are you doing here?” demanded Captain Trimblett, loudly. Mr. Walters eyed him uneasily, and with his cap firmly gripped in his left hand saluted him with the right. Then he turned his head sideways toward the passage. The captain repeated his question in a voice, if anything, louder than before. The strained appearance of Mr. Walters’s countenance relaxed. “Come here for my baccy-box, wot I left here the other day,” he said, glibly, “when you sent me.” “What were you making that infernal row about, then?” demanded the captain. Mr. Walters cast an appealing glance toward the passage and listened acutely. “I was—grumbling because—I couldn’t—find it,” he said, with painstaking precision. “Grumbling?” repeated the captain. “That ugly voice of yours was enough to bring the ceiling down. What was the matter with that man that burst out of the gate as we came in, eh?” The boatswain’s face took on a wooden expression. “He—his nose was bleeding,” he said, at last. “I know that,” said the captain, grimly; “but what made it bleed?” For a moment Mr. Walters looked like a man who has been given a riddle too difficult for human solution. Then his face cleared again. “He—he told me—he was object—subject to it,” he stammered. “Been like it since he was a baby.” He shifted his weight to his other foot and shrugged eloquently the shoulder near the passage. “What did you do to him?” demanded the captain, in a low, stern voice. “Me, sir?” said Mr. Walters, with clumsy surprise. “Me, sir? I—I—all I done—all I done—was to put a door-key down his back.” “DOOR-KEY?” roared the captain.