arties had arranged themselves in natural sequence. The mutineers,
headed by Gabbett, Vetch, and the Moocher, were nearest to the door; the
timid--boys, old men, innocent poor wretches condemned on circumstantial
evidence, or rustics condemned to be turned into thieves for pulling
a turnip--were at the farther end, huddling together in alarm; and the
prudent--that is to say, all the rest, ready to fight or fly, advance or
retreat, assist the authorities or their companions, as the fortune of
the day might direct--occupied the middle space. The mutineers proper
numbered, perhaps, some thirty men, and of these thirty only half a
dozen knew what was really about to be done.

The ship's bell strikes the half-hour, and as the cries of the three
sentries passing the word to the quarter-deck die away, Gabbett, who has
been leaning with his back against the door, nudges Jemmy Vetch.

"Now, Jemmy," says he in a whisper, "tell 'em!"

The whisper being heard by those nearest the giant, a silence ensues,
which gradually spreads like a ripple over the surface of the crowd,
reaching even the bunks at the further end.

"Gentlemen," says Mr. Vetch, politely sarcastic in his own hangdog
fashion, "myself and my friends here are going to take the ship for you.
Those who like to join us had better speak at once, for in about half an
hour they will not have the opportunity."

He pauses, and looks round with such an impertinently confident air,
that three waverers in the party amidships slip nearer to hear him.

"You needn't be afraid," Mr. Vetch continues, "we have arranged it all
for you. There are friends waiting for us outside, and the door will be
open directly. All we want, gentlemen, is your vote and interest--I mean
your--"

"Gaffing agin!" interrupts the giant angrily. "Come to business, carn't
yer? Tell 'em they may like it or lump it, but we mean to have the ship,
and them as refuses to join us we mean to chuck overboard. That's about
the plain English of it!"

This practical way of putting it produces a sensation, and the
conservative party at the other end look in each other's faces with some
alarm. A grim murmur runs round, and somebody near Mr. Gabbett laughs a
laugh of mingled ferocity and amusement, not reassuring to timid people.
"What about the sogers?" asked a voice from the ranks of the cautious.

"D--- the sogers!" cries the Moocher, moved by a sudden inspiration.
"They can but shoot yer, and that's as good as