CHAPTER XVII.
SHORT-HANDED.

HEN Ben came out of the forecastle Bob had
nearly finished his task of effacing the blood stains.

“You can see, sir, it’s just as I said; that kind of
colouring won’t come out,” and he pointed to a dull
smudge which could yet be seen on the wood, despite all
his efforts to remove it.

“What ’s the matter with holystoning it?”

“That ’s what I’ve been doin’, sir, but it has worked
down in the grain. Perhaps if I should use the carpen-
ter’s adze a few minutes I might chop it out.”

“No, you’ ve done well enough. Smear it over with
a little cold tar so the young lady won’t see it, and let
it go at that. Bob, with Mr. Rogers dead, and Mr. Bean
so disabled that there’s hardly a chance he’ll get out of
his bunk before this voyage is ended, I look to you and
Sam to do the work of half a dozen men.”

“And you sha’ n’t look in vain, sir,” Bob replied, grin-
ning with delight at the familiar way in which the captain
spoke to him. ‘You’ve shown that you know how to
command this ’ere brig, even if you’re not over an’ above
old at the business, an’ whatsomever comes to our hands
that we can do, it’s the same as done.”