much of the executive work that had made him famous when he stood
watch, but was always ready to justify his reputation as a "bucko"
should friction with the crew occur past the power of his officers to
cope with. His ship, the _Wilmington_, a skysail-yard clipper, was
rated by sailormen as the "hottest" craft under the American flag, and
Captain Belchior himself was spoken of by consuls and commissioners,
far and near, as a man peculiarly unfortunate in his selection of men;
for never a passage ended but he was complainant against one or more
heavily ironed and badly used-up members of his crew.

His officers were, in the language of one of these defendants, "o' the
same breed o' dorg." No others could or would sign with him. His crews
were invariably put on board in the stream or at anchorage--never at
the dock. Drunk when coerced by the boarding-masters into signing the
ship's articles, kept drunk until delivery, they were driven or hoisted
up the side like animals--some in a stupor from drink or drugs, some
tied hand and foot, struggling and cursing with returning reason.

Equipped thus, the _Wilmington_, bound for Melbourne, discharged her
tug and pilot off Sandy Hook one summer morning, and, with a fresh
quartering wind and raising sea, headed for the southeast. The day was
spent in getting her sail on, and in the "licking into shape" of the
men as fast as they recovered their senses. Oaths and missiles flew
about the deck, knock-downs were frequent, and by eight bells in the
evening, when the two mates chose the watches,--much as boys choose
sides in a ball game,--the sailors were well convinced that their
masters lived aft.

Three men, long-haired fellows, sprawling on the main-hatch, helpless
from seasickness, were left to the last in the choosing and then
hustled into the light from the near-by galley door to be examined.
They had been dragged from the forecastle at the mate's call for "all
hands."

"Call yourselves able seamen, I suppose," he said with an oath, as he
glared into their woebegone faces.

"No, pard," said the tallest and oldest of the three, in a weak voice.
"We're not seamen; we don't know how we got here, neither."

The mate's answer was a fist-blow under the ear that sent the man
headlong into the scuppers, where he lay quiet.

"Say 'sir' when you speak to me, you bandy-legged farmers," he snarled,
glowering hard at the other two, as they leaned against the water-tank.
"I'm pard to no