“Didn’t I tell you, Jem, what ’ud come of sailing on a Friday? and we haven’t seen the end on’t yet,” said Bill Halliday, one of the men we before mentioned, as he was running up the main rigging, and a flash of lightning shewed him his messmate beside him. “Oh, never say ‘die,’ while there’s a shot in the locker, Bill; we’ll weather many a Friday’s sailing yet.” Just then the ship gave a heavy lurch to windward; Jem heard a loud and startling cry close beside him, and, looking downwards through the darkness, a sudden flash shewed him his messmate struggling for life on the surface of the water; he had slipped his foot, poor fellow, and, amid the roar of the waters and the howling of the gale, the noise of his plunge was unheard by those on deck. His messmate, trembling with horror, raised the cry of “A man overboard!” but, alas! in vain; in such a night and such a sea, it would have been madness to risk the lives of the many for the one. The next flash lighted the sea far and near, and all eyes were anxiously bent upon the water; but nothing was visible but the dark heaving mass, with the white foam driving over its surface; the ravenous waves had done their work quickly and mercifully. Soon after this, as if satisfied with this sacrifice to its fury, the gale began gradually to moderate; and, before next night, the ship was again “all a-taunto,” and standing to the southward, with a leading wind, under single-reefed topsails, and topgallantsails. The following day, the weather was so fine, and the water so smooth, that the ladies, who had not hitherto ventured out of their cabins, made their appearance at the cuddy table. At dinner, Morton was seated nearly opposite to a remarkably fine _turkey_, and his eyes were constantly wandering in that direction, but whether for the purpose of admiring _its_ beauties, or those of a young lady seated behind it, it was difficult to distinguish. His contemplation however, either of the dead or the living beauty, seemed to have diverted his thoughts from the indulgence of his appetite. “Mr Morton, a glass of wine?” said the captain; “you seem to be contented with _looking_ at that fine turkey.” “Beautiful creature!” replied he. “Won’t you send your plate over for some of it?” “With all my heart,” sighed he, looking most languishingly in the direction of the turkey. “Why, Mr Morton,” said Hardy, “you said before dinner that you had an excellent appetite; you are not giving proof of it now—I am afraid you are not well.”