Two of the men had gone over the side in the small boat, and the remaining sailor was now engaged in hanging a lamp from the stern. Jack silently approached him.
Having secured the lamp, the sailor took a long look out over the sea and then turned toward the deck; and as his eyes fell on the tall, oil-skinned figure, he uttered a gasp of horror, and began to shuffle backward.
“The captain’s ghost!” he exclaimed in an awed voice.
Suddenly the sailor’s heels caught on a ringbolt and he staggered and fell on the deck with a howl of terror; but in another instant he had scrambled to his feet and rushed away forward, whence the slam of the forecastle scuttle announced his retirement to a place of safety.
More than half an hour elapsed before a hoarse hail from the sea heralded the return of the boat.
“Is all well?” came the cry. “Ferdinand is gone. We couldn’t find him.”
Jack stepped back into the shadow of the mainsail. Soon the heads of the two men appeared over the rail, and they swung themselves to the deck.
For one instant they stood as if petrified; then, with one accord, they stampeded forward, and once more the forecastle scuttle slammed. Jack followed, and, quietly thrusting a belaying pin through the staple of the scuttle, secured them in their retreat.
The mutiny was a thing of the past.
Then Jack made his way to the cabin, where he informed his two newly-made friends of the success of his endeavors, and the three went on deck.