FLINT looked at the boy for a moment with an expression of great concern on his haggard face, and continued:

“I was in a ship once when the whole crew was hazed, and I wouldn’t go through it again for no money. It was awful.”

“But why did you submit to it?” asked Guy, in surprise. “Were there not enough of you to whip the officers?”

“Yes, but that would have been mutiny; and if we had tried it we would have been shot down like dogs. There’s no way out of the scrape, Jack, unless you go overboard. You’re held as tight as if you were in jail.”

“But I haven’t yet told you all,” said Guy, who seemed to find a gloomy satisfaction in talking about his troubles. “The first mate is an enemy of mine, too. You remember, do you not, that when you had the fight at the boarding-house I ran out? Well, I went to the dock, and there I found a man who was being robbed. I saved him by calling the police, and through me one of the robbers was captured. I was taken to the watch-house and locked up until the next morning, when I appeared as a witness against the prisoner; and who do you suppose he turned out to be? I was never more astonished in my life. Don’t say a word about it, Flint, for he threatens to kill me if I lisp it, but it was our first mate. He says he is going to make me think this ship is a frying-pan.”

“And he will keep his promise, too; you can bet high on that,” said Flint, greatly amazed. “Have you told me the worst yet?”

“Yes, I think I have. Haven’t I told you enough?”

“I should say so. I told you that a boy who goes to sea always gets more kicks than ha’pence, and now you find that I spoke the truth.”

“But is there nothing I can do?” asked Guy anxiously.

“Nothing—nothing in the world. You must take your kicks and say not a word. One of these days, when you are an officer, you can take it out of the green hands who ship under you. That’s your only chance to get even.”

Flint, having offered Guy all the consolation in his power—and very poor consolation it was, too—now bethought him of his own troubles. Thrusting his hand under his shirt he drew out his “monk-bag”—a small leather purse which was suspended from his neck by a string. The last time he saw the purse it was well filled with bills and coin, but now it was empty.

“I have been eased of my wealth,” said he. “Do you know what has become of it? I had eighty dollars in here, and never spent a cent of it.”

“Is that gone, too?” exclaimed the boy, astonished at the calmness with which his friend announced the discovery of his loss. “I don’t know any thing about it, but I do know where your advance went.”

With this Guy begun, and hurriedly described the scene that had been enacted when Flint and his insensible companions were first brought on board, dwelling with much indignation on the fact that he had seen Rupert steal his friend’s money, and had tried to make him give it up, but had only succeeded in bringing down upon himself the wrath of the captain, who choked him until he could scarcely see.

When Guy finished, he looked at Flint, expecting that he would be very angry, and that he would at once seek the skipper and demand satisfaction for the manner in which he had been treated; but the sailor did nothing of the kind. He simply smiled, and said, with an effort to appear cheerful:

“I’ve seen that same trick done more’n once, but it was never played upon me before, and never shall be again.”

“But what are you going to do about it?” asked Guy.

“What can I do?”

“Why, arrest Rupert for robbery. I will be a witness against him.”

“Ha!” laughed the sailor. “He’d bring a dozen men to prove that I owed him every cent of my advance, and more too. Besides, there’s no telling where Rupert will be by the time our cruise is ended.”

“But you need not go on this voyage. You were not legally shipped. You don’t remember of signing articles, do you?”

“Of course not; but it will do no good to make a fuss about it, for the old man will say I had too much liquor in me when I did it to remember anything.”

“Suppose he does. I have heard my father say that a note obtained from a person in a state of intoxication is not good in law, and the same principle ought to apply in this case.”

“Well, it won’t,” said Flint. “Law was made for land-lubbers, not for sailors. Nobody cares for a sailor.”

Guy begun to think so, too. It was utterly incomprehensible to him that men who had been kidnapped and robbed, as Flint and his companions had been, must put up with it, having no redress in law. He could not see why it was so.

Just then there was a movement in one of the bunks below, and presently a head appeared at the foot of the ladder. Another of the sailors had slept off the effects of the drug, and was coming up to see where he was. He was a man considerably older than Flint, and his hair and whiskers were as white as snow.

Guy’s heart bled for him. That a man at his time of life should be treated worse than a brute, and be obliged to submit to it too, it was——Guy’s indignation got the better of him, and he could only wish that he could be the master of the vessel for an hour or two. Wouldn’t he straighten out things in a hurry?

The old sailor came slowly up the ladder, taking no notice of Guy and his friend, and swept his eyes over the deck. No sooner had he done so than he started as if he had seen something frightful, took another good look, and his face turned ghastly pale.

“What ship is this?” he asked, backing down the ladder a step or two.

“The clipper Morning Light, bound up the Mediterranean,” replied Guy.

“Morning Light be blessed!” said the old sailor. “I know her. She’s the Santa Maria.”

Guy’s under jaw dropped, and the swab fell from his hand. His worst fears were confirmed.

He did not have time to digest this most unwelcome piece of news; for the second mate, thinking that he was devoting considerable time and attention to swabbing that particular part of the deck—for he had kept steadily at work during his conversation with Flint—came forward to see about it. He might have said or done something not altogether pleasant to Guy’s feelings, had he not been diverted from his object by the discovery of the two sailors on the ladder.

“Well, my hearties, you have slept it off at last, have you?” he exclaimed. “Then tumble up and turn to.”

Flint and the gray-headed sailor promptly obeyed the order, while the mate went into the forecastle to renew his efforts to arouse the sleepers.

This time he was successful. One by one the poor fellows came up the ladder, all of them, as Guy noticed, wearing the same expression of blank amazement which he had observed on Flint’s face, and, seeming to understand their situation as well as if it had been explained to them, went to work without uttering a word of complaint.

As soon as the deck was washed down the ship was got under way, and, when studding-sails had been set alow and aloft, the men were mustered on deck and divided into watches. This done, the captain stepped before them and said, in a stentorian voice, as if he were hailing the mast-head:

“Now, men, we have shipped together for a long voyage, and whether or not it is to be a pleasant one depends entirely on yourselves. You all claim to be able seamen, and if you do your duty cheerfully and without any grumbling, you will find me the easiest ship-master you ever sailed under; but if there’s any nonsense among you, I’ll make this vessel the hottest place for you this side of——” Here the captain pointed with his finger toward the deck, indicating, no doubt, the regions below. “The rule of this ship is, the forenoon watch below, and all hands on deck in the afternoon; and if that regulation is changed, it will be your fault. Mark you, now: That gentleman, Mr. Evans, is my first mate, and that one there, Mr. Schwartz, is my second mate. I’m the captain; and when you have taken a good look at me, go for’rd. That’s all I have to say to you.”

“Go below, the watch,” commanded the second mate.

Guy, Flint, the gray-headed sailor, and the others belonging to the port watch, lost no time in obeying the order. There were none among them who felt like doing duty. Guy certainly did not, for he was so completely exhausted that it did not seem possible he could live to draw another breath. He threw himself upon his hard bed, drew the blankets over his shoulders, and listened to the conversation of the sailors, who now had leisure to talk over their situation.

To Guy’s great surprise there was not one of them who exhibited the least indignation, or had a harsh word to say against the author of their troubles. Some flung themselves helplessly upon their bunks as if it mattered little to them whether they ever got up again or not, others overhauled their bundles or chests to see if any of their dunnage was missing, and the faces of all wore a look of sadness and dejection that was painful to see. The furtive glances that they cast about the forecastle, and the listening attitudes they assumed whenever any unusual sound was heard, was enough to satisfy Guy that they were all aware that they had been shipped aboard the very vessel they had been most anxious to avoid.

“You needn’t be a looking and a listening now, lads,” said the gray-haired sailor, whose name was Upham, and who had made one voyage in the ship. “The Santa Maria is as quiet as old Davy’s locker in the day-time, but wait until midnight, if the wind freshens a bit, then you’ll hear something.”

“The creaking and groaning of the cordage, most likely,” said Guy. “I’ve heard it often aboard the Ossipee.”

“You’d better take a sheep-shank in that tongue of yours,” said Upham sharply. “When you have sailed the blue water till your hair is as white as mine, you’ll know more than you do now.”

So saying the sailor drew the blankets over him, and with a sigh of resignation turned his face to the bulk-head and prepared to go to sleep. The rest of the watch, one after the other, followed his example, and Guy was left to commune with his own thoughts. He would have been glad to know just how and when the ghosts of the Santa Maria were accustomed to appear, so that he might be on the lookout for them; but Upham did not seem inclined to say more on the subject, and he had shown himself to be such a gruff, irritable old fellow that Guy did not care to ask him any questions, being certain of getting a sharp and unsatisfactory reply. While he was thinking about it he fell into a deep, untroubled slumber.

Guy that day learned by experience what “hazing” meant, and he found, too, that Flint’s description of this mode of punishment was not in the least exaggerated. Long before night came he was so nearly exhausted that the fear of the rope’s end, with which the second mate constantly threatened him, was the only thing that kept him moving.

It was his watch below from six to eight o’clock, but he was too tired to sleep, and the time was so short that he got very little rest. He was called on deck again at eight o’clock, and kept busy until midnight, for the wind which arose at sunset freshened rapidly, and on several occasions it was found necessary to shorten sail. Of course Guy could lend no assistance in the execution of this work, but he bustled about in response to every order that was issued, and only succeeded in getting himself into trouble by his misdirected activity and zeal.

Once, when he was sent headlong against the rail by a push from an angry sailor, he clung to it for a moment with a half-formed resolution in his mind to jump into the waves which were tossing the vessel so widely about, and put an end to his misery at once, but prudence stepped in in time to prevent him from doing anything rash.

“The voyage can’t last forever,” thought Guy, trying hard to keep up his courage. “We must reach some port at last, and in less than half an hour after we are tied up to the wharf I shall be missing. I am going to desert. I have money enough in my pocket to keep me in food until I can find something to do. I’d rather be a wood-sawyer than a sailor.”

Midnight came at last, and the starboard watch was called. Guy happened to be standing near the heel of the bowsprit as they came up the ladder, and he was astonished to see that every one of them was as white as a sheet. When they reached the deck they all cast suspicious glances back into the forecastle, as if they were afraid that there might be something following them. Beyond a doubt the ghosts had manifested themselves in some way. So thought Guy, and his opinion was confirmed by some whispered words he overheard.

“What is it, mate?” asked Flint of the sailor who was the first to reach the deck. “Your face is as white as a landsman’s Sunday shirt.”

“And maybe your face will be white, too, after you have been down there a few minutes,” answered the man, who was the gray-haired sailor’s crony, and who, like him, had made one voyage in the Santa Maria. “Where’s Upham?”

“Here,” replied the owner of that name. “Have you seen ’em?”

“No; but I’ve heard ’em. He’ll be up directly.”

“He! Who?” asked Flint uneasily.

“Why, the ghost of the man who was lost overboard a few years ago,” said Upham. “You see, one night, during a gale, some of the crew were sent aloft to cut away the main topsail, for it was blowing too hard to furl it. One man was lost overboard—he was blown fairly off the foot-rope, they tell me—and every night after that his ghost used to get up on the main-topsail yard and sing out: ‘Stand from under!’ I never heard him speak, but I’ve seen him often.”

“So have I,” said Upham’s crony. “He looks like a rat.”

“But what did you see in the forecastle?” asked Flint.

“Nothing; but we heard ’em talking and going on. They’re in the hold now.”

“Go below, you lubbers!” shouted the second mate. “This is the third time I have spoken to you, and if you don’t pay some attention I’ll start you down faster than you want to go.”

The men belonging to the port watch ran quickly down the ladder to avoid the handspike which the officer began to swing about in close proximity to their heads.

Guy was the last to leave the deck. Tired and utterly discouraged as he was he would rather have spent the rest of the night in work than go into the forecastle. He scouted the idea of ghosts, but when such men as Flint and Upham showed signs of fear, he believed that it could not be without good reason, and that there must be something to be afraid of. He trembled violently, and his face was as pale as those of the rest of the watch.

“Aha! see him now, mates!” exclaimed the gray-headed sailor pointing to Guy as he came down the ladder. “Here’s the chap that knows more’n all the rest of us put together!—a regular sea-lawyer. Now look at him!”

“Listen! listen!” said one of the watch suddenly.

The sailors all held their breath, and a silence deep as that of the grave reigned in the forecastle. This continued for a few seconds, and then a low, moaning sound, like the wail of some one in intense bodily agony, fell upon their ears with startling distinctness. It seemed to come to them through the bulk-head that separated the forecastle from the hold.

Guy listened in great amazement. The cold chills begun to creep all over him, and his face grew a shade paler than ever.

“Don’t be afraid, my son,” said Upham mockingly. “It’s only the creaking and groaning of the rigging. You’ve heard it often, so it needn’t scare you.”

“No, it isn’t the rigging,” said Guy; “it’s the boxes of freight rubbing against one another.”

“Well, I never knew before that boxes of freight could talk,” said one of the watch. “Just listen to that!”

“Oh, heavens! I can’t stand it! I can’t stand it!” came in muffled tones from the hold. “Take it off, or I shall die!”

This was followed by a low, murmuring sound, as of several persons in earnest conversation, and then all was still.

Guy’s philosophy was not proof against such a manifestation as this. There was something in the hold beyond a doubt, and what else could it be but the ghostly crew the Santa Maria was supposed to carry?

“There’s been awful things done aboard this craft,” said Upham, shaking his gray head solemnly. “Nobody knows how many poor fellows have been knocked overboard on dark nights by them two mates.”

“Great Scott!” soliloquized Guy, jumping into his bunk and drawing the blankets over his head. “I never thought of that. Who knows but that the first mate may be watching for a chance to knock me overboard?”

The old sailor’s words had excited a train of serious reflections in Guy’s mind. A man who could deliberately attack another with the intention of robbing and throwing him into the harbor, would be none too good to make an end of the boy who had given evidence against him. There was but one thing he could do in his helpless situation, he told himself, and that was to watch the mate closely and be in readiness to seize the first opportunity to desert the vessel.

The night wore slowly away, and another miserable day dawned for the runaway. He was kept very busy, for the mates always found some work that he could do, but still he had leisure to observe that there was something unusual going on among the men. They gathered in little groups to converse when the officers were not looking at them, and Upham talked privately with every one of the crew, Guy alone excepted. He seemed to be urging some sort of a movement among the sailors, but what it was Guy could not find out, for no one, not even Flint, would enlighten him.

Was it a mutiny? Guy hoped it was, and placed a handspike where he could seize it at a moment’s warning. If force were resorted to, he would get in at least a blow or two in return for the barbarous treatment to which he had been subjected.

Nothing was done until three o’clock, and then the captain came on deck as usual to smoke his after-dinner cigar. His appearance seemed to be the signal the sailors were waiting for. They dropped their work at once and, headed by Upham, marched aft in a body.