One of the sailors Charley had selected for his crew was the tall handsome fellow whom the others seemed to shun.

"I can't understand what the rest have against him," the young captain remarked to his chum. "He seems very quiet and well behaved, and he is every inch a sailor. I would ask Manuel about him but it is bad policy to discuss one of the crew with another. It always makes trouble. Likely, Manuel would lie about him anyway, he seems to hate him, look at him glaring at him now."

The Greek was leaning against the railing staring at the sailor who was coiling down a rope near him. Suddenly the Greek addressed the man in a low savage tone. The sailor's face grew red with anger, and he replied shortly in a few hissing words. With a bound, the Greek cleared the space between the two and struck the sailor full in the mouth. The man reeled back against the main mast, but, recovering himself in a second, sprang for his assailant. The Greek leaped to one side and whipped out a long wicked knife.

Before he could use it, Captain Westfield, belaying pin in hand, rushed in between the two.

"Put up that knife," he roared. "I'll do what fighting there is to be done on this ship."

The Greek shot one quick glance at him, venomous with hate, then he glanced beyond him at the two lads who waited expectantly with hands on their pistols.

"He cursed me," he said sullenly, as he slowly replaced the knife in his pocket.

"When anyone curses you, report it to me an' don't take the law in your own hands. I'm master of this schooner, an' you might as well understand it right off. Tell that fellow just what I've told you."

The sailor's face darkened as the Greek spoke to him rapidly, but he turned slowly away and walked forward.

"That's a bad beginning," Charley remarked to his chum. "I wish we had never seen that Greek. I believe he insulted that sailor. The fellow was behaving himself and tending to his own business."

He repeated the remark to the captain a little later.

"I reckon you're right, lad," agreed the old sailor, "that Greek seems to be a trouble-maker but he'll find he's got the wrong man to deal with. I've handled too many crews of tough roughnecks to be bested by a dirty furriner."

"I'll bet he will keep you busy with complaints," Walter said. "How are you going to get at the truth of it if he does complain about the others of the crew?"

"You'll see, I reckon, he will try something like that but I'm ready for him."

Sure enough, in less than an hour the Greek approached the Captain.

"I hate to trouble you, but I must complain as you have directed," he said suavely. "The cook, he is very abusive, I tried to instruct him about your meals but he answers me with vile names."

"Bring the cook aft," Captain Westfield commanded.

Manuel escorted the bewildered-looking cook aft with a look of sly triumph on his face.

The captain looked the man over appraisingly. He was a broad-shouldered, well-muscled fellow. He spoke to him briefly but the cook shook his head. He could not understand.

The old sailor picked up a rope and spread it in a big circle on the deck.

"This insulting of you has got to be stopped right off," he declared, addressing the interpreter. "Give me your knife."

The Greek surrendered his weapon.

"Now both of you get inside that ring and fight it out to a finish," he ordered. "Lick him good for calling you names."

Manuel's face fell, and, turning he spoke rapidly to the cook. "He has apologized and my honor is satisfied," he declared.

"All right," the captain said with a wink at the grinning boys. "Next time any one insults you, I am going to make you give him a good licking in a square fist fight. I'm not agoing to let any of the crew swear at you and call you names—it ain't right."

"I guess we won't have any more complaints from him right off," he chuckled as the disappointed Greek retired forward.

"I'm afraid we're going to have more or less trouble through not understanding their language," Charley said, gravely. "I don't believe he had a bit of trouble with the cook. He was just aiming to have you punish the fellow and get you disliked by the crew."

"I can handle him all right," the captain declared, confidently. "If he gets troublesome I'll iron him and put him down in the hold. I reckon I can make the rest understand what I want done by signs, though it would be mighty awkward if a gale struck us."

The old sailor soon left the boys in charge of the deck and went below to write up the log and look over the charts.

"If this wind holds we'll be on the edge of the sponging grounds by night," he said when he returned. "I didn't realize before how big they are. Why, they reach clear from Cedar Keys to Cape Sable, about seven hundred miles."

"One thing that has puzzled me is that all these schooners seem to come from Key West," Charley remarked, '"Of Key West' is lettered on the stern of every one of them."

"Key West used to be the headquarters for the sponging business in the old days," the captain explained. "They used to gather sponges different from what they do now. A schooner would take out about twenty small boats an' a crew of forty men. When she got to the sponge grounds, the small boats would scatter out around her, two men in each boat. One man would do the sculling and the other would lean over the bow with a water glass in one hand—a pail with a pane of glass for a bottom—and a long pole with a hook in the end in the other. When he spied a sponge on the bottom through the glass he'd have the other stop sculling and he would hook it up with his pole. It was slow, hard work, but they made money at it until the Greeks came with their expert divers. They could not compete with them so they either sold or leased their schooners to the Greeks and went out of business."

The old sailor's explanation was interrupted by a howl of "Oh, Golly!" from the cook' galley forward and Chris, dripping with water, bounded out of the open door of the little structure, and rushed aft.

"I want you to put dat cook in irons, Massa Captain," he cried. "He's done 'saulted his superior officer."

"What did he do to you," the captain asked with a twinkle in his eye.

"Throwed a hull pan of dirty, nasty dishwater obber me. I was jus' tellin' him how he had outer do, an' tryin' to show de ignorant man how to cook, when—slosh—he let fly dat big pan full all obber me."

The dirty water was streaming from the little negro's brilliant clothing and his face was streaked with purple from his cap.

The captain checked his desire to laugh.

"The cook did just right," he said, gravely. "You've got no business in his galley. A cook is always boss there. Even the Captain seldom interferes with him."

Chris seemed inclined to protest indignantly, but the old sailor continued.

"How would you like to be cook an' have some one poking around an' tellin' you what to do?"

"Golly! I reckon you is right," the little darkey admitted, "I wouldn't stand such doin's. 'Spect dough dat my good clothes is all spoiled. Dat water was powerful greasy."

"Better dry them out and lay them away," Walter suggested. "They are too fine to wear at sea. You had ought to save them 'till we get in port."

Both boys were glad when Chris accepted the suggestion. They could see that the crew regarded the little fellow in his gay apparel with a contempt and ridicule that the plucky, loyal little lad did not deserve.

Under her shortened canvas, the "Beauty" had dropped to the rear of the fleet. Late in the afternoon the schooners ahead began to shorten sail. Soon one rounded up into the wind, dropped anchor and lowered sail. A mile further on another one anchored, a mile beyond another took in sail, until at last the whole fleet was strung out in a long line reaching many miles North and South.

The captain held the "Beauty" on her course until the last schooner was passed then anchored, lowered sails and made everything snug.

"We are on the sponging grounds," he explained to the boys who had been puzzled by the fleet's maneuvers. "To-morrow we make our first try as spongers."

As soon as their supper was finished the boys strolled forward to view the crew at their meal.

The Greeks ate in groups of four. Each group had a great tin pan filled with some kind of stew. This they divided into four equal portions with their big spoons, all eating from the same pan.

The stew, black bread as hard as a rock, and ripe olives constituted their meal, but the boys, hearty eaters themselves, were astounded at the amount of food each Greek disposed of.

"I never dreamed a man could stow away so much grub," Charley remarked. "They are not eating three meals in one, but six."