Then a difficulty arose.  What was to be done with the prisoner?  He was like a raving maniac.  If they allowed him his liberty, he was sure to kill one or more of them.  If they bound him he would get loose in some way—­probably through the mate—­and after what had occurred, it would be safer to turn loose a Bengal tiger on deck then the infuriated captain.  There was but one way out of the trouble, and they all knew it.  They looked at one another; nothing was wanting but the word, and it soon came.  Secker had sailed from the Cove of Cork, and being an Irishman, he was by nature eloquent, first in speech, and first in action.  He reflected afterwards, when he had leisure to do so.

“Short work is the best,” he said, “over he goes; lift the devil.”  Each man seized an arm or leg, and Blogg was carried round the mast to the lee side.  The men worked together from training and habit.  They swung the body athwart the deck like a pendulum, and with a “one! two! three!” it cleared the bulwark, and the devil went head foremost into the deep sea.  The cook, looking on from behind the mast, gave a deep sigh of relief.

Thus it was that a great breach of the peace was committed on the Pacific Ocean; and it was done, too, on a beautiful summer’s evening, when the sun was low, a gentle breeze barely filled the sails, and everybody should have been happy and comfortable.

Captain Blogg rose to the surface directly and swam after his schooner.  The fury of his soul did not abate all at once.  He roared to the mate to bring the schooner to, but there was no responsive “Aye, aye, sir.”  He was now outside of his jurisdiction, and his power was gone.  He swam with all his strength, and his bloated face still looked red as the foam passed by it.  The helmsman had resumed his place, and steadied the tiller, keeping her full, while the other men looked over the stern.  Secker said:  “The old man will have a long swim.”

But the “old man” swam a losing race.  His vessel was gliding away from him:  his face grew pale, and in an agony of fear and despair, he called to the men for God’s sake to take him on board and he would forgive everything.

But his call came too late; he could find no sureties for his good behaviour in the future; he had never in his life shown any love for God or pity for man, and he found in his utmost need neither mercy nor pity now.  He strained his eyes in vain over the crests of the restless billows, calling for the help that did not come.  The receding sails never shivered; no land was near, no vessel in sight.  The sun went down, and the hopeless sinner was left struggling alone on the black waste of waters.

The men released the cook and held a consultation about a troublesome point of law.  Had they committed mutiny and murder, or only justifiable homicide?  They felt that the point was a very important one to them—­a matter of life and death—­and they stood in a group near the tiller to discuss the difficulty, speaking low, while the cook was shivering in the forecastle, trying to ease the pain.