“Ah ha, I zees you vell, how you runs de goat shleeve down mit de gards and sheats dat boor poy vat ish blay mit you.  Yoh, sir, you ish von pig sheat!”

“How dare you, sir? who are you?” cried the rascal, starting up white with rage and turning to face his accuser.

“Who was it? where is that Dutch scoundrel that dared accuse me of cheating?” he cried, sending a fierce glance about the room.

“Vat ish dat you galls me? von Dutch scoundrel? you man mit de proken nose; I say it again:  you ish von pig sheat.”

This time the voice seemed to come from a stateroom behind the gambler.  Towering with rage, he rushed to the door and tried to open it.  Failing in that, he demanded admittance in loud angry tones, at the same time shaking the door violently, and kicking against it with a force that seemed likely to break in the panels.

There was an answering yell, a sound as of some one bouncing out of his berth upon the floor, the key turned hastily in the lock, the door was thrown wide open, and a little Frenchman appeared on its threshold in night attire, bowie knife and pistol in hand, and black eyes flashing with indignant anger.

“Sir, Monsieur, I vil know vat for is dis disturbance of mine slumbers?”

“Sir!” said the other, stepping back, instantly cooled down at sight of the weapons, “I beg pardon:  was looking for a scoundrel of a Dutchman who has been abusing me, but I see he’s not here.”

“No sir, he is not here!” and the door was slammed violently to.

“Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you vake up de wrong bassenger.  Ha, ha!  I dells you again you ish von pig sheat!”

Now the voice came from the skylight overhead, apparently, and with a fierce imprecation the irate gamester rushed upon deck, and ran hither and thither in search of his tormentor.

His victim, who had been looking on during the little scene and listening to the mysterious voice in silent wide-eyed wonder and fear, now rose hastily, his face deathly pale, with trembling hands gathered up the money he had staked, and hurrying into his state room, locked himself in.

The remaining passengers looked at each other.

“What does it mean?” cried one.

“A ventriloquist aboard, of course,” returned another.  “Let’s follow and see the fun.”

“I wonder which of us it is!” remarked the first, looking hard at our party.

“I don’t know, but come on.  That fellow Nick Ward, is a noted blackleg and ruffian:  had his nose broken in a fight and is sensitive on the subject; was cheating of course.”

They passed out, our party close in their rear.

“Where’s that Dutch villain?” Ward was screaming, following up his question with a volley of oaths.

“Who?” asked the mate, “I’ve seen none up here; though there are some in the steerage.”

Down to the steerage flew the gambler without waiting to reply, and bounding into the midst of a group of German emigrants seated there, quietly smoking their pipes, angrily demanded which of them it was who had been on the upper deck just now, abusing him, and calling him a cheat, and a man with a broken nose.