That night Tony and Tommy went ashore for the purpose of finding Mr. Stoddard and beating him up. The ex-second mate was boarding in a Chinese house in Beretania Street, according to reports from some of the Kanakas, and the two avengers trailed him from that place to the Criterion saloon. The true story of what happened was long obscured, for both Tony and Tommy came aboard very late and turned in refusing to say anything until the next morning, when they were given the third degree by the exacting masters of fo'c'sle affairs in the persons of Jimmy and Australia. The stories did not tally and for a long time it was thought that Mr. Stoddard had given them more than they counted on. The truth came out when Chips told the yarn to some cronies on the beach. It seems that Mr. Stoddard met Tony and Tommy as he was leaving the saloon. Their determined manner, and clenched fists, at once warned him of trouble. With a knowledge of sailor psychology, nothing short of masterly, he advanced toward them in true "come on" style, greeting them with a warmth of cordiality entirely unexpected, and a moment later Tony and Tommy were with him at the bar drinking imported beer at two bits a glass, and wondering how they had ever been so mistaken in him. No doubt Mr. Stoddard would have got his licking had he remained in port, but we learned that he shipped before the mast on the bark _W. H. Dimond_ bound for San Francisco. A day at the coal got us rid of that objectionable part of the cargo, and when we took up the tarpaulins we found a large consignment of case oil filling most of the 'tween decks. Case oil, let it be known, is kerosene in large square cans, packed two in a case, and nicely calculated as to weight so that a good husky sailor man can just about lift one of them without straining himself too much. However, I can vouch for the fact that these cases are very hard to handle and get heavier and heavier as the exercise is continued. The stevedores ashore, so we learned later, were Republicans, a jolly lot of progressive Kanakas, demons for work and constantly chattering like crazy brown magpies. On the other hand, the donkey crew, the man at the dolly, and the hatch man, a lively Kanaka named Nigger, were Royalists of the bluest strain compatible with their swarthy complexions. The Royalists did their level best to send the case oil out on the wharf so fast that the lowly Republicans could not handle it. Below decks, in the stifling heat, we labored in gangs, running the cases to the square of the hatch from two sides, while Old Smith and Frenchy adjusted the slings about the stacks of twelve cases and up they would shoot. It seemed that the cargo hook was constantly dangling in the hatch like a hungry black worm while that demon Nigger raised a hell of sweat and hurry with his constant shouting to "_Hook her up! Hook her up!_" and every few minutes the mate would bend over the hatch and roar down his bit of encouragement.