romanticist like Terence the fairy tale which Mr. Schultz had spun at
breakfast the morning after leaving Pernambuco was not at all
difficult of assimilation. It appeared--according to Mr. Schultz--
that the skipper had gone ashore for a night of roystering, and upon
returning to the ship about midnight, in a wild state of intoxication,
had become involved in an altercation with the launchman over the
fare. In the resultant battle the skipper, in his helpless condition,
was being terribly beaten by the vicious Pernambucan; hence one could
scarcely blame him for drawing a pistol and shooting the
launchman--fatally, according to Mr. Schultz. Of course, after that,
to have lingered longer inside the three-mile limit would have been
sheer insanity, so Mr. Schultz, taking matters into his own hands, had
uphooked and skipped with doused lights from the jurisdiction of the
Pernambuco police.

"And how did the skipper come out of all this?" Mr. Reardon had
inquired anxiously.

"He iss in rodden shape," Mr. Schultz had declared. "Von of hiss
angles vos brogen, und he vos cut mid a knive--preddy deeb, but
noddings to worry aboud. Der only drouble iss der dooty of navigading
der shib falls double on der segond mate und me."

"Make him pay ye over-time out av his own wages, the wurthless
vagabone!" Mr. Reardon had urged. "May he walk wit' a limp for the
rest av his days--bad cess to him! I've a notion, Misther Schultz,
that lad'll never comb his hair grey."

Mr. Schultz nodded lugubriously; then he glanced up and caught the
little cockney steward staring at him so balefully, that he realized