It was freely used for that purpose until the navigator chanced to discover the fact.  He forthwith issued orders forbidding any person to enter the house, except on duty.  His order, like many others, received respectful consideration—­when he happened to be looking.  In the present case we were so eager to hear the conclusion of the stories being related by the rival yarn-spinners, that we were fain to brave “Cutlets’” displeasure.  Led by Bill and Tom, we piled inside.

“What I was trying to say,” spoke up the former, getting the first opening, “was that when Patrick reached the top of the stairs, something struck him full in the chest, and two hairy arms were thrown about his neck.  The sudden shock sent him tumbling backward, and he fell kerflop! down the steps.  Up above, his wife was howling to beat the band, ’Mike, Mike, ye spalpane!  You do be killing your poor father.  Och! why did I live to see this day?’ In the meantime the real Mike—­for the one inside was the escaped monk from the menagerie—­had scooted for the police.  They came, a half dozen of them, and as they entered the front door—­”

“Time!” chuckled “Stump.”  “Give Tom a chance.”

“As I opened the front door of the little wooden house where we had placed the body,” said Tom, prompt to take advantage of the opportunity, “I saw two gleaming eyes glaring at me from the inner room.  I tell you, my heart fell clean down into my boots.”

“Should think it would,” muttered the “Kid,” peering about the wheel-house with a shiver.  “Ugh!”

“I dropped the lantern,” resumed Tom, “and staggered back.  Just then a——­”

“Half dozen policemen entered the front door just as Patrick and the supposed Mike reached the bottom of the stairs,” broke in Bill, taking up the thread of his story.  “Well, when the Irish coppers saw Pat with the monk hanging around his neck they thought the old Nick had him.  They started to run, but the old woman reached the lower floor in time to see both Mike and the monkey.  She grabbed a broom, but the monk slipped through the front door, and——­”

“That’s the end of your story.  And a good job it is too,” remarked Tom.

“It is better than having no end,” retorted Bill.  “You spin out a yarn to beat the band.”

“It’s getting late,” spoke up “Hod,” yawning.  “If you fellows are going to chew the rag all night I——­”

“Only a word more,” interrupted Tom.  “As I staggered back I fell into the arms of the nurse, who had come down to see what kept me.  I explained in a hurry, and he lit a match.  We both went in and discovered——­”

“Sh-h-h!  Get out of here, you fellows,” suddenly spoke up a voice at the door on the starboard side.  “Here comes ’Cutlets’!”

There was a scramble for the opposite door, and in much less time than is taken in the telling, the wheel-house was empty.  We huddled in the shadows for a moment; then dodged forward.  As we reached the hatch I heard the “Kid” ask Tom: