The eyes belonged to a rough, square, dark-skinned face, the owner of which was the third mate, Mr. Brand—a man of Portuguese extraction, whom the captain had shipped at Australia, to take the place of his other third officer, lost overboard in a gale.
Brand was an excellent sailor, but a reckless, good-for-nothing fellow at heart; a cruel, bloody-thirsty wretch, who had committed almost every crime one can imagine, except murder!
Still it was evident the man had a conscience, as he would sometimes get to thinking of the evil course he had pursued, and resolve to reform.
Alas! for reformation! rum was his God, and in this he would soon drown all his better feelings, and keep getting worse and hardened until he grew to be a perfect devil!
Captain Roberts had known nothing of this when he shipped the third mate, who could play the hypocrite to perfection when he pleased. The fellow drank his rum in the privacy of his own apartment, and took good care never to appear on deck intoxicated, for Roberts was a stern, resolute, temperate man, who would never have forgiven his second officer for being drunk on duty.
It was now Brand's watch below. In his apartment he had heard the click of Mr. Manton's chest-lock; a noise which had saluted his ears, since leaving Australia more than once. Determined to ascertain the cause, he had emerged from his room in his stocking feet, and made his way to Manton's door as shown.
As he watched the old man counting his money; as he saw the glitter of those bright pieces, his mouth fairly watered, and a fearful purpose began to gather strength at his heart.
Having seen Manton return the little box to his chest, the third mate stole back to his berth, and lay a long time awake, endeavoring to plan a scheme for obtaining the money.
"Wouldn't like to take the old gent's life," he muttered; "and won't—no I won't; for bad as Dick Brand is, he has never yet murdered."
The more he thought, however, the less fearful became the idea of murder.