."

"Then we are four, so far. Now, what of Groot and Shamhaven and Jack
Wilbur?"

"Groot is a good fellow and a man who wishes to make money."

"And Shamhaven will do almost anything for money--he once told me so. He
took a sailor suit from a store in Manila without paying for it."

"I know that too. The tailor was rich and didn't need the money," and
Peterson gave another coarse laugh.

"Then we are six--to stand up for our rights. And Jack Wilbur will make
seven--just half the number on the ship."

"How can we count that Wilbur in? He is a Yankee."

"He is a weakling and we can manage him,--and I think we can manage some
others, too--when we get that far."

"How far do you mean?" demanded Peterson, although he knew about what
was coming.

"Is anybody else near here?"

"No," and Peterson took a careful look around.

"Supposing we seize the ship--in the name of the Russian Government?
They have a Japanese cargo on board, the captain cannot deny it. We can
take the ship, sail her to some Russian port, and win both prize money
and glory. Is it not a grand scheme?"

"Ha, that is fine!" Carl Peterson's eyes glowed voraciously. "Ostag, you
are a man after my own heart! We might become rich!"

"Then you like the plan?"

"Yes--providing we can make it work. But it is a big undertaking. If we
were caught we might swing from a yardarm for it."

"We can make it work--I have another plan for that. I have thought it
out completely. We can--but more later," and Ostag Semmel broke off
abruptly, as several sailors entered the forecastle. A little later he
began to complain in broken English to a sailor named Jack Wilbur that
he was suffering from a severe stomach ache.

"Sorry to hear on it," said Wilbur, who was a very mild foremast hand.
"Anything I can do for you?"

"I dink not," answered Semmel. "I dink de poor grub ve git mak me feel
pad."

"Didn't notice that the grub was poor," answered Wilbur.

"Very poor--not so goot as py my las' ship," answered Semmel. "Some grub
here not fit to eat."

It was soon noised around that Semmel was not feeling well and that he
had complained that the food dealt out at noontime had made him sick. As
soon as Captain Ponsberry heard of this he went to interview Jeff, the
colored cook, who, as of old, was singing gayly to himself among the
pots and pans of the ship's galley.

"Wasn't nuffin de mattah wid dat grub, Cap'n Ponsberry," exclaimed Jeff,
after hearing what the