ngage Sackett in an argument concerning devils, hell, and
many other subjects not relating to navigation of the Indian Ocean. At
such times the third mate would raise his piping voice and plead with
Andrews not to shock him with his profanity. The second officer of the
_Sovereign_ appeared to enjoy the situation, and would laugh until
ordered from the table by Sackett. Miss Sackett, of course, would not
dine with the rest, but had her meals served in her stateroom by the
steward, who did it with a very bad grace, grumbling and complaining at
the extra work. He was a good-looking young man, this steward, and the
fact that he complained told plainly that there was something between the
men that was doing away with discipline. The steward's name was Dalton,
and he was a fair specimen of the London cockney. Stout and strong, he
was as ignorant as an animal and about as easily persuaded into doing
things as an obstinate mule. He was also about as hard to dissuade. The
other men of the _Sovereign's_ crew were Bull England, a powerful sailor
who had served many years in the navy, and who was also a prize fighter,
and Dog Daniels, a surly old fellow, who was continually growling at
everything. He was six feet six inches and over in height, and as lean
and gaunt as the white albatross hovering over our wake. Journegan, the
second officer, made the last but not least of the select four who had
elected to stay aboard with Sackett to take in the ship and get salvage.

If Andrews had weapons, which I had reason to believe he had since his
show of a revolver upon the captain's table, there would be six armed men
against thirteen and a woman, for I had no reason to doubt Sackett was to
be done away with if the rest were.

I pondered while I ate the cold junk and ship's bread, listening to
Andrews holding forth to Mr. Bell and Journegan upon the fallacy of
trusting to a power that was highly unintelligible.

"For instance," said he, "for why should I give thanks fer this stinkin'
junk meat when I don't know but what Dalton, there, has put his dirty
hands on it an' pisened it fit to kill? How do I know if he washes his
hands afore cookin', hey? Look at them warts an' tell me if they ain't
ketchin'. Jest think of a stomach full o' warts. Is that anything to be
thankful for, I'd like to know."

The idea amused Journegan, but it set me to thinking about the medicine
chest in spite of myself. Sackett scowled while this sort of talk went