“Because Mynheer Vanslyperken count his money de guineas,” replied the corporal, writhing at the idea of what he had lost by his superior’s interference.

“Ho, ho! his money, well, that’s a good reason, for he would skin a flint if he could,” observed Coble; “but that can’t last for ever.”

“That depends how often he may count it over,” observed Jemmy Ducks—­“but there’s his bell;” and soon after Corporal Van Spitter’s name was passed along the decks, to summon him into the presence of his commanding officer.

“Now for a breeze,” said Coble, hitching up his trousers.

“Yes,” replied Short.

“For a regular shindy,” observed Spurey.

“Hell to pay and no pitch hot,” added Jemmy, laughing; and they all remained in anxious expectation of the corporal’s return.

Corporal Van Spitter had entered the cabin with the air of the profoundest devotion and respect—­had raised his hand up as usual, but before the hand had arrived to its destination, he beheld Vanslyperken seated on the locker, patting the head of Snarleyyow, as if nothing had happened.  At this unexpected resuscitation, the corporal uttered a tremendous “Mein Gott!” and burst like a mad bull out of the cabin, sweeping down all who obstructed his passage on the lower deck, till he arrived to the fore-ladder, which he climbed up with tottering knees, and then sank down on the forecastle at the feet of Jemmy Ducks.

“Mein Gott, mein Gott, mein Gott!” exclaimed the corporal, putting his hands to his eyes as if to shut out the horrid vision.

“What the devil is the matter?” exclaimed Coble.

“Ah! mein Gott, mein Gott!”

As it was evident that something uncommon had happened, they all now crowded round the corporal, who, by degrees, recovered himself.

“What is it, corporal?” inquired Jemmy Ducks.

Before the corporal could reply, Smallbones, who had been summoned to the cabin on account of the corporal’s unaccountable exit, sprang up the ladder with one bound, his hair flying in every direction, his eyes goggling, and his mouth wide open:  lifting his hands over his head, and pausing as if for breath, the lad exclaimed with a solemn sepulchral voice, “By all the devils in hell he’s come again!”

“Who?” exclaimed several voices at once.

“Snarleyyow,” replied Smallbones, mournfully.

“Yes—­mein Gott!” exclaimed Corporal Van Spitter, attempting to rise on his legs.

“Whew!” whistled Jemmy Ducks—­but nobody else uttered a sound; they all looked at one another, some with compressed lips, others with mouths open.  At last one shook his head—­then another.  The corporal rose on his feet and shook himself like an elephant.

“Dat tog is de tyfel’s imp, and dat’s de end on it,” said he, with alarm still painted on his countenance.

“And is he really on board again?” inquired Coble, doubtingly.