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Captain Benson, in manner and appearance, was as superior to the smooth-shaven and manly-looking Mr. Jackson as the latter was to the misformed, hairy, and brutal second mate. With his fashionably cut clothing, steady blue eye, and refined features, he could have been taken for an easy-going club-man or educated army officer rather than the master of a working-craft. Yet there was no lack of seamanly decision in the leap he made from the rail to the deck, or in the tone of his voice as he demanded:

“What’s the police flag up for, Mr. Jackson?”

“Mutiny, sir. They started in to lick me ‘fore turning to, and we’ve shot five, but none of them fatally.”

“Lower that flag–at once.”

Mr. Becker obeyed this order, and as the flag fluttered down the captain received an account of the crew’s misdoing from the mate. He stepped into his cabin, and returning with a double-barreled shot-gun, leaned it against the booby-hatch, and said quietly: “Call all hands aft who can come.”

Mr. Jackson delivered the order in a roar, and the eleven men forward, who had been watching the newcomers from the forecastle-deck, straggled aft and clustered near the capstan, all of them hatless and coatless, shivering palpably in the keen December air. With no flinching of their eyes, they stared at Captain Benson and the pilot.

“Now, men,” said the captain, “what’s this trouble about? What’s the matter?”

“Are you the captain here?” asked a red-haired, Roman-nosed man, as he stepped out of the group. “There’s matter enough. We ship for a run down to Rio Janeiro and back in a big schooner; and here we’re put aboard a square-rigged craft, that we don’t know anything about, bound for Callao, and ‘fore we’re here ten minutes we’re howled at and shot. Bigpig Monahan thinks he’s goin’ to die; he’s bleedin’–they’re all bleedin’, like stuck pigs. Sorry Welch and Turkey Twain ha’ got broken arms, and Jump Black and Ghost O’Brien got it in the legs and can’t stand up. What kind o’ work is this, anyhow?”

“That’s perfectly right. You were shot for assaulting my officers. Do you call yourselves able seamen, and say you know nothing about square-rigged craft?”

“We’re able seamen on the Lakes. We can get along in schooners. That’s what we came down for.”

Captain Benson’s lips puckered, and he whistled softly. “The Lakes,” he said–“lake sailors. What part of the Lakes?”

“Oswego. We’re all union men.”

The captain took a turn or two along the deck, then faced them, and said: “Men, I’ve been fooled as well as you. I would not have an Oswego sailor aboard my ship–much less a whole crew of them. You may know your work up there, but are almost useless here until you learn. Although I paid five dollars a man for you, I’d put you ashore and ship a new crew were it not for the fact that five wounded men going out of this ship requires explanations, which would delay my sailing and incur expense to my owners. However, I give you the choice–to go to sea, and learn your work under the mates, or go to jail as mutineers; for to protect my officers I must prosecute you all.”

“S’pose we do neither?”

“You will probably be shot–to the last resisting man–either by us or the harbor police. You are up against the law.”

They looked at each other with varying expressions on their faces; then one asked: “What about the bunks in the forecastle? There’s no bedding.”

“If you failed to bring your own, you will sleep on the bunk-boards without it.”

“And that swill the Chinaman cooked at dinner-time–what about that?”

“You will get the allowance of provisions provided by law–no more. And you will eat it in the forecastle. Also, if you have neglected to bring pots, pans, and spoons, you will very likely eat it with your fingers. This is not a lake vessel, where sailors eat at the cabin table, with knives and forks. Decide this matter quickly.”