But all was quite clear and plain again, as I heard Bob Hampton say—
“Some one has been playing larks with the grub, sir. I can’t go to the wheel, for I can’t—can’t—can’t—can’t— Here, hold up Neb, lad; don’t lurch about like that.”
“I’m a-going down, matey, I’m a-going down,” growled Dumlow, and I saw him sink on the deck.
“You scoundrels, you’ve been at the rum!” cried Mr Brymer, and he drew his pistol, but only gave a stagger, and caught about in the air to try and save himself from falling. “Help—Frewen—something—give me something,” he panted, and Mr Frewen came to him, feeling his way with his arms stretched out just as if he were playing at blindman’s buff.
He came on as if from a great distance, till he touched Mr Brymer, and I heard him whisper the one word—“Treachery.”
“I knew it!” cried the mate, fiercely, and cocking his pistol he staggered for a moment just as I saw Bob Hampton sink down on the deck holding his head.
Directly after, as Mr Frewen stood swaying to and fro, the mate rushed to where the cook and the two men stood by the galley-door.
The two sailors shrank away to right and left, while Mr Brymer seized the cook and dragged him away, forcing him down upon his knees, holding him by the collar with one hand, and swaying to and fro as he said thickly—
“You dog, you drugged that dish you sent in to dinner!”
“No, sir—’pon my word, sir—I swear, sir!” shrieked the poor fellow.