He relieved the skipper from an awkward dilemma by walking off to the galley and starting on a bowl of potatoes. The master of the Susan Jane watched him blankly for some time and then looked round at the mate.

“You won’t get much change out of ‘im,” said the latter, with a nod; “insultin’ little devil.”

The other made no reply, but as soon as the potatoes were finished set his young friend to clean brass work, and after that to tidy the cabin up and help the cook clean his pots and pans. Meantime the mate went below and overhauled his chest.

“This is where he gets all them ideas from,” he said, coming aft with a big bundle of penny papers. “Look at the titles of ‘em—‘The Lion of the Pacific,’ ‘The One-armed Buccaneer,’ ‘Captain Kidd’s Last Voyage.’”

He sat down on the cabin skylight and began turning them over, and, picking out certain gems of phraseology, read them aloud to the skipper. The latter listened at first with scorn and then with impatience.

“I can’t make head or tail out of what you’re reading, George,” he said snappishly. “Who was Rudolph? Read straight ahead.”

Thus urged, the mate, leaning forward so that his listener might hear better, read steadily through a serial in the first three numbers. The third instalment left Rudolph swimming in a race with three sharks and a boat-load of cannibals; and the joint efforts of both men failed to discover the other numbers.

“Just wot I should ‘ave expected of ‘im,” said the skipper, as the mate returned from a fruitless search in the boy’s chest. “I’ll make him a bit more orderly on this ship. Go an’ lock them other things up in your drawer, George. He’s not to ‘ave ‘em again.”

The schooner was getting into open water now, and began to feel it. In front of them was the blue sea, dotted with white sails and funnels belching smoke, speeding from England to worlds of romance and adventure. Something of the kind the cook said to Ralph, and urged him to get up and look for himself. He also, with the best intentions, discussed the restorative properties of fat pork from a medical point of view.

The next few days the boy divided between seasickness and work, the latter being the skipper’s great remedy for piratical yearnings. Three or four times he received a mild drubbing, and what was worse than the drubbing, had to give an answer in the affirmative to the skipper’s inquiry as to whether he felt in a more wholesome frame of mind. On the fifth morning they stood in towards Fairhaven, and to his great joy he saw treess and houses again.

They stayed at Fairhaven just long enough to put out a small portion of their cargo. Ralph, stripped to his shirt and trousers, having to work in the hold with the rest, and proceeded to Lowport, a little place some thirty miles distant, to put out their powder.

It was evening before they arrived, and, the tide being out, anchored in the mouth of the river on which the town stands.

“Git in about four o’clock,” said the skipper to the mate, as he looked over the side towards the little cluster of houses on the shore. “Do you feel better now I’ve knocked some o’ that nonsense out o’ you, boy?”

“Much better, sir,” said Ralph respectfully.

“Be a good boy,” said the skipper, pausing on the companion-ladder, “and you can stay with us if you like. Better turn in now, as you’ll have to make yourself useful again in the morning working out the cargo.”

He went below, leaving the boy on deck. The crew were in the forecastle smoking, with the exception of the cook, who was in the galley over a little private business of his own.

An hour later the cook went below to prepare for sleep. The other two men were already in bed, and he was about to get into his when he noticed that Ralph’s bunk, which was under his own, was empty. He went upon deck and looked round, and returning below, scratched his nose in thought.

“Where’s the boy?” he demanded, taking Jem by the arm and shaking him.

“Eh?” said Jem, rousing, “Whose boy?”

“Our boy, Ralph,” said the cook. “I can’t see ‘im nowhere, I ‘ope ‘e ain’t gone overboard, poor little chap.”

Jem refusing to discuss the matter, the cook awoke Dobbs. Dobbs swore at him peacefully, and resumed his slumbers. The cook went up again and prowled round the deck, looking in all sorts of unlikely places for the boy. He even climbed a little way into the rigging, and, finding no traces of him, was reluctantly forced to the conclusion that he had gone overboard.

“Pore little chap,” he said solemnly, looking over the ship’s side at the still waters.

He walked slowly aft, shaking his head, and looking over the stern, brought up suddenly with a cry of dismay and rubbed his eyes. The ship’s boat had also disappeared.

“Wot?” said the two seamen as he ran below and communicated the news. “Well, if it’s gorn, it’s gorn.”

“Hadn’t I better go an’ tell the skipper?” said the cook.

“Let ‘im find it out ‘isself,” said Jem purring contentedly in the blankets, “It’s ‘is boat. Go’night.”

“Time we ‘ad a noo ‘un too,” said Dobbs, yawning. “Don’t you worry your ‘ed, cook, about what don’t consarn you.”

The cook took the advice, and, having made his few simple preparations for the night, blew out the lamp and sprang into his bunk. Then he uttered a sharp exclamation, and getting out again fumbled for the matches and relit the lamp. A minute later he awoke his exasperated friends for the third time.

“S’elp me, cook,” began Jem fiercely.

“If you don’t I will,” said Dobbs, sitting up and trying to reach the cook with his clenched fist.

“It’s a letter pinned to my pillow,” said the cook in trembling tones, as he held it to the lamp.

“Well, we don’t want to ‘ear it,” said Jem. “Shut up, d’ye hear?”

But there was that in the cook’s manner which awed him.

“Dear cook,” he read feverishly, “I have made an infernal machine with clock-work, and hid it in the hold near the gunpowder when we were at Fairhaven. I think it will go off between ten and eleven to-night, but I am not quite sure about the time. Don’t tell those other beasts, but jump overboard and swim ashore. I have taken the boat. I would have taken you too, but you told me you swam seven miles once, so you can eas–”

The reading came to an abrupt termination as his listeners sprang out of their bunks, and bolting on deck, burst wildly into the cabin, and breathlessly reeled off the heads of the letter to its astonished occupants.

“Stuck a wot in the hold?” gasped the skipper.

“Infernal machine,” said the mate; “one of them things wot you blow up the ‘Ouses of Parliament with.”

“Wot’s the time now?” interrogated Jem anxiously.

“‘Bout ha’-past ten,” said the cook trembling. “Let’s give ‘em a hail ashore.”

They leaned over the side, and sent a mighty shout across the water. Most of Lowport had gone to bed, but the windows in the inn were bright, and lights showed in the upper windows of two or three of the cottages.

Again they shouted in deafening chorus, casting fearful looks behind them, and in the silence a faint answering hail came from the shore. They shouted again like madmen, and then listening intently heard a boat’s keel grate on the beach, and then the welcome click of oars in the rowlocks.

“Make haste,” bawled Dobbs vociferously, as the boat came creeping out of the darkness. “W’y don’t you make ‘aste?”

“Wot’s the row?” cried a voice from the boat.

“Gunpowder!” yelled the cook frantically: “there’s ten tons of it aboard just going to explode. Hurry up.”

The sound of the oars ceased and a startled murmur was heard from the boat; then an oar was pulled jerkily.

“They’re putting back,” said Jem suddenly. “I’m going to swim for it. Stand by to pick me up, mates,” he shouted, and lowering himself with a splash into the water struck out strongly towards them. Dobbs, a poor swimmer, after a moment’s hesitation, followed his example.

“I can’t swim a stroke,” cried the cook, his teeth chattering.

The others, who were in the same predicament, leaned over the side, listening. The swimmers were invisible in the darkness, but their progress was easily followed by the noise they made. Jem was the first to be hauled on board, and a minute or two later the listeners on the schooner heard him assisting Dobbs. Then the sounds of strife, of thumps, and wicked words broke on their delighted ears.

“They’re coming back for us,” said the mate, taking a deep breath. “Well done, Jem.”

The boat came towards them, impelled by powerful strokes, and was soon alongside. The three men tumbled in hurriedly, their fall being modified by the original crew, who were lying crouched up in the bottom of the boat. Jem and Dobbs gave way with hearty goodwill, and the doomed ship receded into the darkness. A little knot of people had gathered on the shore, and, receiving the tidings, became anxious for the safety of their town. It was felt that the windows, at least, were in imminent peril, and messengers were hastily sent round to have them opened.

Still the deserted Susan Jane made no sign. Twelve o’clock struck from the little church at the back of the town, and she was still intact.

“Something’s gone wrong,” said an old fisherman with a bad way of putting things. “Now’s the time for somebody to go and tow her out to sea.”

There was no response.

“To save Lowport,” said the speaker feelingly. “If I was only twenty years younger–”

“It’s old men’s work,” said a voice.

The skipper, straining his eyes through the gloom in the direction of his craft, said nothing. He began to think that she had escaped after all.

Two o’clock struck and the crowd began to disperse. Some of the bolder inhabitants who were fidgety about draughts closed their windows, and children who had been routed out of their beds to take a nocturnal walk inland were led slowly back, By three o’clock the danger was felt to be over, and day broke and revealed the forlorn Susan Jane still riding at anchor.

“I’m going aboard,” said the skipper suddenly; “who’s coming with me?”

Jem and the mate and the town-policeman volunteered, and, borrowing the boat which had served them before, pulled swiftly out to their vessel and, taking the hatches off with unusual gentleness, commenced their search. It was nervous work at first, but they became inured to it, and, moreover, a certain suspicion, slight at first, but increasing in intensity as the search proceeded, gave them some sense of security. Later still they began to eye each other shamefacedly.

“I don’t believe there’s anything there,” said the policeman, sitting down and laughing boisterously: “that boy’s been making a fool of you.”

“That’s about the size of it,” groaned the mate. “We’ll be the laughing-stock o’ the town.”

The skipper, who was standing with his back towards him, said nothing; but, peering about, stooped suddenly, and, with a sharp exclamation, picked up something from behind a damaged case.

“I’ve got it,” he yelled suddenly; “stand clear!”

He scrambled hastily on deck, and, holding his find at arm’s length, with his head averted, flung it far into the water. A loud cheer from a couple of boats which were watching greeted his action, and a distant response came from the shore.

“Was that a infernal machine?” whispered the bewildered Jem to the mate. “Why, it looked to me just like one o’ them tins o’ corned beef.”

The mate shook his head at him and glanced at the constable, who was gazing longingly over the side. “Well, I’ve ‘eard of people being killed by them sometimes,” he said with a grin.