Hamilton looked at Captain Kettle under his brows.  “Will you advise me,” he said, “what I ought to do.”

“I should say it would be healthier for you to let him have his own way.”

“Thanks,” said Hamilton, and turned away.  “I’ll act on that advice.”

Now the next few movements of Mr. Cranze are wrapped in a certain degree of mystery.  He worried a very busy third mate, and got tripped on the hard deck for his pains; he was ejected forcibly from the engineers’ mess-room, where it was supposed he had designs on the whisky; and he was rescued by the carpenter from an irate half-breed Mosquito Indian, who seemed to have reasons for desiring his blood there and then on the spot.  But how else he passed the time, and as to how he got over the side and into the water, there is no evidence to show.

There were theories that he had been put there by violence as a just act of retribution; there was an idea that he was trying to get into a lighter which lay alongside for a cast ashore, but saw two lighters, and got into the one which didn’t exist; and there were other theories also, but they were mostly frivolous.  But the very undoubted fact remained that he was there in the water, that there was an ugly sea running, that he couldn’t swim, and that the place bristled with sharks.

A couple of lifebuoys, one after the other, hit him accurately on the head, and the lighter cast off, and backed down to try and pick him up.  He did not bring his head on to the surface again, but stuck up an occasional hand, and grasped with it frantically.  And, meanwhile, there was great industry among the black triangular dorsal fins that advertised the movements of the sharks which owned them underneath the surface.  Nobody on board the Flamingo had any particular love for Cranze, but all hands crowded to the rail and shivered and felt sick at the thought of seeing him gobbled up.

Then out of the middle of these spectators jumped the mild, delicate Hamilton, with a volley of bad language at his own foolishness, and lit on a nice sleek wave-crest, feet first in an explosion of spray.  Away scurried the converging sharks’ fins, and down shot Hamilton out of sight.

What followed came quickly.  Kettle, with a tremendous flying leap, landed somehow on the deck of the lighter, with bones unbroken.  He cast a bowline on to the end of the main sheet, and, watching his chance, hove the bight of it cleverly into Hamilton’s grasp, and as Hamilton had come up with Cranze frenziedly clutching him round the neck, Kettle was able to draw his catch toward the lighter’s side without further delay.

By this time the men who had gone below for that purpose had returned with a good supply of coal, and a heavy fusillade of the black lumps kept the sharks at a distance, at any rate for the moment.  Kettle heaved in smartly, and eager hands gripped the pair as they swirled up alongside, and there they were on the lighter’s deck, spitting, dripping, and gasping.  But here came an unexpected developement.  As soon as he had got back his wind, the mild Hamilton turned on his fellow passenger like a very fury, hitting, kicking, swearing, and almost gnashing with his teeth; and Cranze, stricken to a sudden soberness by his ducking, collected himself after the first surprise, and returned the blows with a murderous interest.