Inkspot greatly disliked this man.  He had been one of the fellows who had ill-treated him when the Arato sailed under Cardatas, and he fully agreed with his fellow-blacks that the scoundrel should have been shot.  But now his feelings began to undergo a change.  A man with a bottle of spirits might prove to be an angel of mercy, a being of beneficence, and if he would share with a craving fellow-being his rare good fortune, why should not all feelings of disapprobation be set aside?  Inkspot could see no reason why they should not be, and softly slipping from his hammock, he approached Garta.

“Give me.  Give me, just little,” he whispered.

Garta turned with a half-suppressed oath, and seeing who the suppliant was, he seized the bottle in his left hand, and with his right struck poor Inkspot a blow in the face.  Without a word the negro stepped back, and then Garta put the bottle into a high, narrow opening in the side of the forecastle, and closed a little door upon it, which fastened with a snap.  This little locker, just large enough to hold one bottle, had been made by one of the former crew of the Arato solely for the purpose of concealing spirits, and was very ingeniously contrived.  Its door was a portion of the side of the forecastle, and a keyhole was concealed behind a removable knot.  Garta had not opened the locker before, for the reason that he had been unable to find the key.  He knew it had been concealed in the forecastle, but it had taken him a long time to find it.  Now his secret was discovered, and he was enraged.  Going over to the hammock, where Inkspot had again ensconced himself, he leaned over the negro and whispered: 

“If you ever say a word of that bottle to anybody, I’ll put a knife into you!  No matter what they do to me, I’ll settle with you.”

Inkspot did not understand all this, but he knew it was a threat, and he well understood the language of a blow in the face.  After a while he went to sleep, but, if he smelt again the odor of the contents of the bottle, he had no more heavenly dreams.

The next day Captain Horn found himself off the convict settlement of Punta Arenas, belonging to the Chilian government.  This was the first port he had approached since he had taken command of the Arato, but he felt no desire nor need to touch at it.  In fact, the vicinity of Punta Arenas seemed of no importance whatever, until Shirley came to him and reported that the man Garta was nowhere to be found.  Captain Horn immediately ordered a search and inquiry to be made, but no traces of the prisoner could be discovered, nor could anybody tell anything about him.  Burke and Inkspot had been on watch with him from four to eight, but they could give no information whatever concerning him.  No splash nor cries for help had been heard, so that he could not have fallen overboard, and it was generally believed that, when he knew himself to be in the vicinity of a settlement, he had quietly slipped into the water and had swum for Punta Arenas.  Burke suggested that most likely he had formerly been a resident of the place, and liked it better than being taken off to unknown regions in the schooner.  And Shirley considered this very probable, for he said the man had always looked like a convict to him.