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24 collar and presenting a six-shooter at his head. “Now, lookee yere, cap'en. Wot's your programme? What do you purpose to du?” Freddy recollected himself, for he felt that a crisis was at hand, and that his only chance lay in carrying it off with a high hand.

“To fight till the last drop of my blood shall trickle on these snowy decks, and then, mingling with the blue ocean beneath our feet, proclaim to all who may chance to see it that Rule Columbia, Columbia rules the waves, Yankee traders never, never, never will be done out of their slaves!"

A yell of joy rang through the air as the confused metaphors of their beloved captain sank into the souls of the crew. He perceived his advantage, and lost no time in following it up.

“Now, my men,” said he, “what shall we do with these lying mutineers, who for ends of their own have endeavoured to stir you up against your captain?”

“Overboard!” was the universal verdict, and a hundred hands clutched at the mate and the boatswain. In another moment they were hurled, gurgling, into the deep.

In the meanwhile, the wind had freshened considerably, and the British frigate (to whom no one paid any attention during the excitement of this scene) came up, hand over hand.

“Here you,” said Freddy to a middle-aged person, who had been foremost in throwing over the first mate—and whom he concluded on that account to be the second mate—“take charge of the slow match on the lower deck, and when I give the word 'go,' set light to it.”

“Ay, ay, sir!” said the second mate. And he slowly