ALL deep-water ships carry mascots. As the mascot must be some kind of living creature, a cat will often supply the necessary medium for carrying on pleasant intercourse with the fickle goddess of fortune. But men on deep-water ships must be fed, especially those who live in the after-cabin or who help to form what is called the after-guard. Therefore it is not an uncommon sight to see a ship’s deck looking like a small farmyard afloat.

The clipper ship Conemaugh was noted for her long voyages. She was a product of the old school of wind-jammers and her skipper was a Yankee of Calvinistic views, who

He met little Murphy, the ship’s pig, the morning the youngster was brought aboard. The little fellow was in the arms of his sponsor, James Murphy, able seaman, and the way he kicked and squealed made the black moke of a cook poke his head out of the galley door and grin.

“Take good care of that fellow,” said the skipper. “Them white hogs air wuth two black ones on the West Coast, so if we don’t have to eat him I kin swap him off easy enough.”

So Murphy was put in a pen under the top-gallant-forecastle, and Jim was detailed to scrub him and otherwise attend to his wants. With all this care it would seem that he could hardly help becoming a good pig. But he was like many youngsters who have the best of care lavished upon them; that is, he was thrown with mixed company. It is very hard, however, to separate the sheep from the goats, and as luck would have it Murphy’s lot was thrown with Jim, the sailor who had the worst reputation among the mates of any man aboard the ship.

The day the vessel put to sea the skipper mustered the men according to his custom, and made them an address.

“The master,” said he, “air greater than the servant, and the servant ain’t above the master.” Here he looked straight at Jim. “So saith the holy gospel,—an’ whatsoever saith the gospel is er fact,—an’ is truth. If it ain’t, I’ll make it so if I have to take the hide off every burgoo-eating son of a sea-cook aboard the ship.”

There were many men aboard there who had heard little of the Scriptures, but even if they had heard much they would doubtless not have cared to discuss them or any other matter with the skipper. His voice rose to the deep, roaring tone of the hurricane on all occasions, and when it failed to convince the listener of the owner’s logic, a sudden clap from his heavy hand generally ended verbal matters about as effectively as a stroke of lightning. Most of the men on board were used to kicks and curses, for the skipper reckoned he could handle any class of men that ever trod a deck. He had a fair sprinkling of all on this cruise. As the mates followed the skipper’s example in matters of discipline, the ship was as near to being a floating hell as anything above water could be.

Jim Murphy resented even the curses of the captain and mates, so he was rated among the after-guard as the worst man on board. His friendship for the pig was against him in the forecastle, and soon even the men of the starboard watch began to hold off from him.

“What d’ye want to fool with that porker fer? Yell never get er taste of him, hide or hair,” growled old Dan.

“He ain’t the only pig aboard this here ship,” answered Jim, “an’ I like him better than most.”

“Kind goes with kind,” observed the second mate, whenever he saw them together.

Remarks like this made by the second officer caused great amusement to the men of the starboard watch. But those who applauded the most were old Dan and his chum Bull Davis. These two worthies gave Mr. Tautline to understand that he was the wittiest second mate afloat, in the hope that he would “pet” them. When they found this was useless, the united curses of the whole crew were weak in expression as compared to the audible reflections of this worthy pair.

When the ship reached the latitude of the River Plate, old Dan came out openly for mutiny. He told with grim coolness and great detail of how he had taken part in an affair of this kind before. How he had crawled along the projecting sheer-strake outside the bulwarks towards the quarter-deck, while a companion had done likewise on the side opposite. How they had made the sudden rush aft and had engaged with their sheath-knives against the revolvers of the after-guard. A little more nerve in a few men who hung back and the ship would have been taken.

He had served part of a ten-years’ sentence for this, had escaped, and had been continuously afloat ever since.

Bull Davis was an escaped convict from Australia, and he seconded the old villain’s project in every detail.

One day, off the Horn, Dan was careless in modulating his voice when the second mate gave an order. The next instant he was sprawling in the lee-scuppers and the second mate was addressing him coolly.

“Don’t make no remarks about the weather in my watch. It’s a square wind, so up you go on that yard now a little quicker’n greased lightning.”

The devil was peeping from the old villain’s eyes as he gained the ratlines, but he said nothing.

When the ship ran into the southeast trade-wind, Murphy, the pig, was turned out on the deck to root at the seams. He would start down the gangways suddenly, without apparent reason, and go rushing along the water-ways at full speed, punctuating his squeals with deep “houghs” that would have done credit to a bear. On these occasions Jim, the sailor, was perfectly happy. He would call the little fellow to him and the pig would follow him like a dog.

“He is a cute little baste, an’ he makes me homesick,” Jim would say, and the mates and men would rail and curse at him for it. The only living thing on board the ship that was in sympathy with them was the blasphemous green parrot belonging to the carpenter. This bird would pray and curse in the same breath, and whenever Jim came near the galley would call out “pig,” “pig,” in a high key. Then it would curse him and pray for his soul.

One night Jim noticed that old Dan sat up late, sharpening his knife on a piece of holy-stone. Just before his watch turned out at midnight he awoke, and found that neither Dan nor Bull Davis were in the forecastle. He went on deck and walked aft, waiting for the bells to strike.

In a moment Davis appeared, coming out of the cabin with Mr. Tautline.

“There’s something wrong with the port backstay in the fore-riggin’,” said the sailor to the mate.

“What’s that?” asked Tautline.

“The lug-bolt in the lee fore-riggin’ is busted. You had better take a look at it afore away goes the backstay,” said Davis.

“All right. Wait here till I get a pipe o’ tobacco, and we’ll look at it.”

Jim hurried forward. He looked over the rail and peered into the blackness alongside. The phosphorus flared in a ghostly manner as the water rolled lazily from the vessel’s side, but everything appeared all right.

Suddenly a gleaming bit of something shot upward. He started back quickly, and a hand holding a knife struck savagely at his chest. The blade ripped his shirt from neck to waist, but did not wound him. The next instant old Dan arose from the channels and climbed over the rail to the deck.

“The wrong man, ye murtherin’ villain,” growled Jim.

“So it was, messmate,” said Dan, coolly.

“What’s the row?” asked Tautline, coming up to where the men stood. He saw something was wrong, but had not seen Dan come over the side.

“That busted dead-eye,” answered Dan. “I was just lookin’ at it.”

“Well, get out before I put a couple of dead-eyes in your ugly figgerhead. Slant away!” And Dan slunk around the corner of the deck-house.

As the good weather held, the galley cat came out of hiding and sunned herself in the lee of the galley during the warm part of the day.

Jim saw her and tried to make friends.

“Keetie, keetie,—nice leetle keetie,” said he, trying to stroke the brute on the head. But long confinement had told on Maria’s liver, and she reached out and drew several long, bloody lines on the sailor’s hand.

“Ye infernal shnake!” cried Jim; and he aimed a blow at the animal that would have knocked it clear across the equator had it not jumped nimbly to one side. His hand brought up against the galley with a loud bang.

“Let that cat alone. What d’ ye mean by trying to spoil a dumb brute’s temper?” roared the voice of Tautline, and his form came lurching down the weather gangway.

“Don’t strike me!” cried Jim, as they closed.

The belaying-pin in Tautline’s hand came down with a sickening crack on the sailor’s skull.

“Stop!” he cried again.

But Tautline was carried away by his passion and they went to the deck together.

It was all over in a moment. Tautline lay gasping in a red pool and Jim sat up, sheath-knife in hand, staring about him in a dazed manner. Then the captain and mate rushed up.

“Handcuff him! Put him in double irons!” cried the skipper, stretching Jim with a heavy blow.

The next day little Murphy ran up and down the deck. The ports over the water-ways had been knocked out as the ship was very deep; they had not been nailed in again. Murphy came to where Jim was lying in irons under the top-gallant-forecastle. He sniffed his bloody clothes and ran away with a squeal. The sailor called after him, but he did not stop until he reached the open port in the waist. Then he sniffed at the ominous stain on the bright deck planks and poked his head through the open port.

“Blood! Blood! Blood!” screamed the parrot in the galley.

Murphy started, slipped, and was gone. The cook rushed to the side, bawling out something that sounded like “man overboard,” and the noise brought the starboard watch on deck with a rush.

“That bloomin’ old pig,” growled Dan, looking over the rail.

There he was, sure enough, swimming wildly and striking himself under the jowl with every stroke.

The captain watched his pig drifting slowly astern for a moment. Then he turned to the mate. “All hands wear ship!” he bawled, and the men rushed to the braces.

“Mr. Enlis,” said the skipper, “you go aloft and keep the critter in sight. Take my glass with you.”

The ship was heavy, so before she could be wore around the little pig was lost in the blue waste of sparkling waters.

The mate came down from the ratlines with the glass and a smile which peculiarly emphasized the singleness of a solitary tooth. He did not like pork.

The skipper walked the quarter-deck and mused with his chin in his hand.

“That’s too bad. Too bad. Too bad,” said he. “I paid two dollars for that pig.” And his voice was as mournful as the sound of the sea washing through the ribs of a lost ship.

“Poor little pig,” muttered Jim, and he tried to look astern from his place under the top-gallant-forecastle. “Poor little pig!” And the tears ran down his dirty, sun-bronzed face.

“Wonder!” cried Dan, coming forward; “there’s a murderer for you. Crying over an old pig he won’t get a taste of, hide nor hair.”

“It’s all that young devil’s fault,” mused the skipper. “The master is above the servant an’ the servant ain’t the master’s equal. So says the Holy Scriptures. When a man takes up with them what is below him, he is gone wrong. That’s Jim with the pig. Yes, sir, the Scriptures say them very words somewhere,—I can’t call to mind exactly where,—but they are so. If they ain’t I’ll make them so, and I’ll hang that Irish dog when I get him to ’Frisco.” And he did.