driving the brute
overboard.

Between five and six o'clock in the evening the tide had made so as to
cover the mud, and I saw the brig's boat approaching. Those who pulled
flourished their oars drunkenly. The boat came to a stand when within
easy hailing distance, as though old Bunk was taking a view of me as I
sat in the top, and was wondering what I did there.

I roared out: "For God's sake mind how you come aboard! There's been a
blooming tiger in this brig since noon!"

"A what?" yelled Bunk, and the seamen pulled a little closer in.

It was still broad flaming daylight, and the sun hung like a huge
blood-red target over the crimson sea.

"A what?" shrieked Bunk.

"A tiger! A blooming tiger!" I bellowed, pointing to the brute that
lay crouched on the forecastle hidden from the boat's crew.

"Drunk again, Tom? or is it sun-stroke this time?" sung out old Bunk,
standing up in the boat and lurching to the rocking of her.

"It's killed William!" I yelled.

When I said this the beast, attracted by the noise of voices over the
side, got up and looked over the bulwark rail at the men, and old Bunk
instantly saw it. He stared for a minute or two as though he had been
blasted by a stroke of lightning. The other three fellows then saw the
beast, and if there was any drink in their heads the fumes of it flew
out at that sight, and left them sober men. Their postures were full
of wild surprise and terror whilst they gazed. Old Bunk roared:

"Has he killed the boy, d'yer say?"

"He lies there dead," cried I, pointing. "He hasn't moved since I
first saw him."

"Has he been eating of him?"

"No!"

"We must go ashore for help," sung out Jack Stevens.

"For God's sake don't leave me up here!" I cried.

"Tom," shouted Bunk, "there's only wan thing to dew; there's an old
gun in my cabin, and yer'll find a powder-flask and ball in the
locker. We must keep that tiger a-watching of us over the bow, whilst
you run below and shut the hatch. By lifting the lid you'll be able to
shoot him through the skylight. Come you down now as far as you durst
whilst we fixes the attention of the brute upon ourselves."

I at once dropped into the rigging, where I stretched and played my
legs a bit. They were as stiff as hand-spikes after that long spell in
the maintop. I descended as low down as the sheer-pole, breathlessly
watching. They pulled the boat under the bow, and Bill Martin with
lifted oar made as though spearing at the