e lost their watch below can. They just
stayed long enough t' shove th' unopened bottles o' stout well out o'
sight underneath th' mattresses o' their bunks an' then they was up on
deck working like niggers. A squall had struck the _Here at Last_;
mighty inconvenient, these squalls in the Caribbean Sea are, an' th'
_Here at Last_ wasn't best calc'lated t' weather 'em. For two mortal
hours everyone was hard at it, takin' in sail, doublin' ropes, an'
makin' all ready for what promised t' be a dirty night. All thoughts o'
beer was driven out o' their heads. An' when everythin' was ship-shape
an' they came below again, soakin' wet an' dog-tired, they just climbed
into their berths without stoppin' to think of th' precious bottles o'
stout.

"'Bout two o'clock in th' mornin', I was woke up by what sounded like a
pistol shot in th' fo'c's'le, an' before I c'd rub th' sleep out er my
eyes, there was another, an' another an' another, an' I saw four sailors
tumble outer their bunks an' fall on th' floor shriekin' as if they'd
been attacked by th' most awful pain. Everyone else in th' fo'c's'le
sits up, wide awake, an' starin' at th' sufferin' wretches on th' floor.

"'Wot th' 'ell's up?' asks th' Britisher; but no one knew, an' th' nex'
second there was another explosion, an' he suddenly gave a scream that
lifted th' hair on my scalp, an' leaps outer his bunk as if he'd been
suddenly prodded in a tender spot wi' a red hot poker.

"'My Gawd!' he screeches; 'th' bunk's exploded an' I'm bleedin' ter
death;' an' he starts yellin' like a catamount, runnin' up an' down th'
gangway, an' tramplin' upon th' four shriekin', cursin', prayin' sailors
who'd been attacked fust.

"'It's an infernal machine, an' it's blowed a hole in me back,' the
Britisher yelled; an' we who was lookin' on c'd certainly hear suthin'
drippin' from th' bunk he'd just got out of.

"'Owch! I'm blowed t' bits. I'm bein' murdered. I'm dyin', Lord help
me,' Harry Towers, the carpenter, wails; an' there was another terrific
bang, an' outer his bunk Harry shot, landin', on th' chest o' one o' th'
moanin' squirmin' sailors. Th' poor fellow, findin' himself thus
flattened out, an' not knowin' what it was had fallen on him, gives a
gaspin' sort er yell, an' drives Towers in th' back wi' his fist.

"Th' row goin' on was suthin' terrible; a' 'sylum full o' ravin'
lunatics on th' rampage couldn't have made more noise; an' them that
hadn't been hurt was beginnin' t' fee