Mr. Cranze’s connective remarks broke off here for the time being.  He found himself suddenly plucked away from the bunk by a pair of iron hands, and hustled out through the state-room door.  He was a tall man, and the hands thrust him from below, upward, and, though he struggled wildly and madly, all his efforts to have his own way were futile.  Captain Owen Kettle had handled far too many really strong men in this fashion to even lose breath over a dram-drinking passenger.  So Cranze found himself hurtled out on to the lower fore-deck, where somebody handcuffed him neatly to an iron stanchion, and presently a mariner, by Captain Kettle’s orders, rigged a hose, and mounted on the iron bulwark above him, and let a three-inch stream of chilly brine slop steadily on to his head.

The situation, from an onlooker’s point of view, was probably ludicrous enough, but what daunted the patient was that nobody seemed to take it as a joke.  There were a dozen men of the crew who had drawn near to watch, and yesterday all these would have laughed contemptuously at each of his contortions.  But now they are all stricken to a sudden solemnity.

“Spell-o,” ordered Kettle.  “Let’s see if he’s sober yet.”

The man on the bulwarks let the stream from the hose flop overboard, where it ran out into a stream of bubbles which joined the wake.

Cranze gasped back his breath, and used it in a torrent of curses.

“Play on him again,” said Kettle, and selected a good black before-breakfast cigar from his pocket.  He lit it with care.  The man on the bulwark shifted his shoulder for a better hold against the derrick-guy, and swung the limp hose in-board again.  The water splashed down heavily on Cranze’s head and shoulders, and the onlookers took stock of him without a trace of emotion.  They had most of them seen the remedy applied to inebriates before, and so they watched Cranze make his gradual recovery with the eyes of experts.

“Spell-o,” ordered Kettle some five minutes later, and once more the hose vomited sea water ungracefully into the sea.  This time Cranze had the sense to hold his tongue till he was spoken to.  He was very white about the face, except for his nose, which was red, and his eye had brightened up considerably.  He was quite sober, and quite able to weigh any words that were dealt out to him.

“Now,” said Kettle judicially, “what have you done with Mr. Hamilton?”

“Nothing.”

“You deny all knowledge of how he got overboard?”

Cranze was visibly startled.  “Of course I do.  Is he overboard?”

“He can’t be found on this ship.  Therefore he is over the side.  Therefore you put him there.”

Cranze was still more startled.  But he kept himself in hand.  “Look here,” he said, “what rot!  What should I know about the fellow?  I haven’t seen him since last night.”

“So you say.  But I don’t see why I should believe you.  In fact, I don’t.”