Coal piling was just getting under way in the heaving dock, when the door to Caradoc's cabin swung open and the Englishman stepped out.
A glance at the tall fellow told Madden how he fared. The narrow-set eyes were inflamed, the long bronze face had lost firmness and seemed inclined to sag in lines.
“Smith,” called Madden friendlily, “you may help pile coal if you feel like it.”
“I—that demijohn that you took last night,” began the Briton nervously.
“Yes,” Madden became serious.
“I want it, if you please.”
Madden looked at the unstrung fellow. “Can't get it, Smith; you've had too much already.”
“Can't get my own property?” demanded Caradoc, raising his voice so all the men could hear.
“No,” snapped Madden, “you know sailors are not allowed to keep liquor in their dunnage.”
“That's my demijohn and I'll——”
“I smashed it, and the pieces washed overboard long ago.”
“Overboard!” cried the big fellow. He
