ad, me bhoy," he whispered in my ear as he prepared me for what
turned out to be the final round of the battle, "that last dhroive av
yourn wor loike the kick av a horse, or a pony anyhow! One more brace
av them one-twos, Misther Gray-ham, an' he'll be kilt an' done wid!"

It was as Rooney said.

Matthews forced Weeks well-nigh against his will to face me once more,
when my double hit again floored him incontinently, when the ship,
giving a lurch to leeward at the same time, rolled him into the
scuppers, as before at our first encounter.

This settled the matter, for, with all the pluck taken out of him and
completely cowed, Master Sammy did not offer to rise until Matthews,
catching hold of his collar, forcibly dragged him to his feet.

"Three cheers for the little un!" shouted one of the hands, as I stood
triumphant on the deck in their midst, the hero of the moment, sailors
following the common creed of their fellow men in worshipping success.
"Hooray!"

A change came over the scene, however, the next instant.

For, ere the last note of the cheer had ceased ringing out from their
lusty throats, Captain Gillespie's long nose came round the corner of
the cook's caboose, followed shortly afterwards by the owner of the
article--causing Ching Wang, who had been surveying the progress of the
fight with much enjoyment, to retreat instantly within his galley, the
smile of satisfaction on his yellow oval face and twinkle of his little
pig-like eyes being replaced by that innocent look of one conscious of
rectitude and in whom there is no guile, affected by most of his
celestial countrymen.

"Hullo, bosun!" cried the captain, addressing Tim Rooney, who was
helping me to put on my jacket again, and endeavouring, rather
unsuccessfully, to conceal all traces of the fray on my person. "What
the dickens does all this mean?"

"Sorry o' me knows, sorr, why them omahdawns is makin' all av that row
a-hollerin'," said Tim, scratching his head as he always did when
puzzled for the moment for an answer. "It's ownly Misther Gray-ham,
sorr, an' Misther Wakes havin' a little bit of foon togither, an'
settlin' their differses in a frindly way, loike, sorr."

"Fighting, I suppose,--eh?"

An ominous stillness succeeded this question, the men around following
Ching Whang's example and sneaking inside the forecastle and otherwise
slily disappearing from view. Presently, only Tim Rooney and Matthews
remained before the captain besi