The others were in a state of collapse, and almost slipped off their seats, while they looked about in trembling fear. The chief of the Skeleton Crew made a sign to some of his grim attendants to listen to all he had to say. Turning to the chief cook, butler, and pantryman he said, in a sharp, hissing tone, “Wine—the best—quick!” Roger and Tim rose from their seats like a shot, but were each slapped on the head by a hard bony hand, which made their jaws rattle again. Three grim skeleton guards followed the cook, butler, and pantryman, to see that their captain’s orders were carefully obeyed. The wine was soon produced. “Where are the silver goblets?” the chief asked, sternly. These were soon found. Each skeleton filled his goblet to the brim, and raised it aloft. “Here’s to the Skeleton Crew of the Phantom Ship!” he said; “confusion to our enemies.” In a moment the wine was quaffed. The terrified servants did not know what was coming next, and looked on gasping like so many stranded fish. “Remove the table,” said the chief; “let us have plenty of room, we have much business to do.” “They are going to murder every mother’s son of us,” groaned Roger. Tim began to think seriously of saying some short prayer. But they had to swallow their own feelings and fears, nor did any of them dare speak, for behind each stood a skeleton, dagger in hand. The table was removed to one corner of the inner servants’ hall. The domestics were now sitting in a circle, face to face. “The rope,” said the Skeleton Chief, hoarsely. In an instant each of his crew produced a long stout rope, about two inches round, and flourished it before the eyes of their captain with a savage grin. “I thought so,” groaned Roger. “Oh, dear! oh, dear!” “All U.P. now,” Tim groaned. “They wouldn’t believe me,” said the footman. “Good-bye everybody,” said Tim. Roger and Tim had another sound thwack on the jaws from their skeleton guardians, which shook every tooth in their heads. “Sling your ropes,” said the grim Skeleton Chief, quaffing more wine. In a moment each threw one end of his rope up in the air over the numerous beams and rafters of the servants’ hall. “Make each his noose; mind they fit their necks nicely.” “Oh, the cold-blooded rascals!” “The merciless villains!” “Mercy!” “Have pity on us,” gasped the servants, as the Skeletons were making the noose in each rope. “If they speak again despatch them with your daggers,” said the chief. “Hanging is better than that,” sighed Roger, “so I’ll keep quiet. I hope my turn will come last, though,” he piously prayed. “Give the rascals five minutes to say their prayers,” said the chief, with a gruff laugh. “It won’t do them any good, great chief,” said one of the Skeletons; “they are sure to go to the devil.” “Yes, oh, yes,” gasped Roger, “five minutes—say ten, only make it ten, or a quarter of an hour, and it will do us a world of—h-o-o! ha! ho-oh!”