Now in this lonesome ocean, so far away from the route of trading ships, there was little to be feared during the night; the man at the wheel had just to keep his course, and keep the sails from shivering; so during the midnight watch the officer would often go forward, and yarn and smoke with the men around the bows.
One night in the dark week, that is, when the moon is in her last quarter, Paddy M‘Koy’s watch relieved the mate’s at midnight, and the others were soon sound asleep in bunk or hammock.
About two bells, there being nothing to do, Paddy went forward and joined the men. He was a right merry fellow, this Paddy M‘Koy, and he soon had them all laughing and listening to his yarns, which were now and then interlarded with snatches of rollicking Irish songs.
It was as good as a play, every one allowed, to hear the second mate spin a yarn.
A little past two bells, no one noticed a stalwart figure, muffled up in a dark cloak, come up through the half-deck companion and descend to the saloon.
The night was close and warm, and Antonio had been strangely restless.
The candle burned in jimbles at his head, and he had been reading.
But at last he had dropped off.
He always slept with a loaded revolver, not under his pillow, but by his side. A sturdy, short little weapon it was, but capable of carrying a bullet through a three-inch board, and doing mischief afterwards.
The captain’s dreams were uneasy.