Is it, thought Captain Delano, that this hapless man is one of those paper captains I’ve known, who by policy wink at what by power they cannot put down? I know no sadder sight than a commander who has little of command but the name.

‘I should think, Don Benito,’ he now said, glancing towards the oakum-picker who had sought to interfere with the boys, ‘that you would find it advantageous to keep all your blacks employed, especially the younger ones, no matter at what useless task, and no matter what happens to the ship. Why, even with my little band, I find such a course indispensable. I once kept a crew on my quarterdeck thrumming mats for my cabin, when, for three days, I had given up my ship—mats, men and all—for a speedy loss, owing to the violence of a gale, in which we could do nothing but helplessly drive before it.’

‘Doubtless, doubtless,’ muttered Don Benito.

‘But,’ continued Captain Delano, again glancing upon the oakum-pickers and then at the hatchet-polishers, near by, ‘I see you keep some, at least, of your host employed.’

‘Yes,’ was again the vacant response.

‘Those old men there, shaking their pows from their pulpits,’ continued Captain Delano, pointing to the oakum-pickers, ‘seem to act the part of old dominies to the rest, little heeded as their admonitions are at times. Is this voluntary on their part, Don Benito, or have you appointed them shepherds to your flock of black sheep?’

‘What posts they fill, I appointed them,’ rejoined the Spaniard, in an acrid tone, as if resenting some supposed satiric reflection.

‘And these others, these Ashantee conjurors here,’ continued Captain Delano, rather uneasily eyeing the brandished steel of the hatchet-polishers, where, in spots, it had been brought to a shine, ‘this seems a curious business they are at, Don Benito.

‘In the gales we met,’ answered the Spaniard, ‘what of our general cargo was not thrown overboard was much damaged by the brine. Since coming into calm weather, I have had several cases of knives and hatches daily brought up for overhauling and cleaning.’

‘A prudent idea, Don Benito. You are part owner of ship and cargo, I presume; but none of the slaves, perhaps?’

‘I am owner of all you see,’ impatiently returned Don Benito, ‘except the main company of blacks, who belonged to my late friend, Alexandro Aranda.’

As he mentioned this name, his air was heart-broken; his knees shook; his servant supported him.

Thinking he divined the cause of such unusual emotion, to confirm his surmise, Captain Delano, after a pause, said: ‘And may I ask, Don Benito, whether—since a while ago you spoke of some cabin passengers—the friend, whose loss so afflicts you, at the outset of the voyage accompanied his blacks?’

‘Yes.’

‘But died of the fever?’

‘Died of the fever. Oh, could I but—’ Again quivering, the Spaniard paused.

‘Pardon me,’ said Captain Delano, lowly, ‘but I think that by a sympathetic experience, I conjecture, Don Benito, what it is that gives the keener edge to your grief. It was once my hard fortune to lose, at sea, a dear friend, my own brother, then supercargo. Assured of the welfare of his spirit, its departure I could