“Without a crew or provisions—yachts don’t sail with a clean-swept hold, or gentlemen without a spare shirt—we have nothing but two gallons of water and two pairs of pistols.”

“I have it,” said Jack—“we are two young gentlemen in our own boat who went out to Gozo with pistols to shoot seamews, were caught in a gale, and blown down to Sicily—that will excite interest.”

“That’s the best idea yet, as it will account for our having nothing in the boat. Well then, at all events, we will get rid of the bodies; but suppose they are not dead—we cannot throw them overboard alive—that will be murder.”

“Very true,” replied Jack, “then we must shoot them first, and toss them overboard afterwards.”

“Upon my soul, Easy, you are an odd fellow: however, go and examine the men, and we’ll decide that point by-and-by—you had better keep your pistol ready cocked, for they may be shamming.”

“Devil a bit of sham here, anyhow,” replied Jack, pulling at the body of the padrone, “and as for this fellow you shot, you might put your fist into his chest. Now for the third,” continued Jack, stepping over the strengthening piece—“he’s all among the baskets. I say, my cock, are you dead?” and Jack enforced his question with a kick in the ribs. The man groaned. “That’s unlucky, Gascoigne; but, however, I’ll soon settle him,” said Jack, pointing his pistol.

“Stop, Jack,” cried Gascoigne, “it really will be murder.”

“No such thing, Ned; I’ll just blow his brains out, and then I’ll come aft and argue the point with you.”

“Now do oblige me by coming aft and arguing the point first. Do, Jack, I beg of you—I entreat you.”

“With all my heart,” replied Jack, resuming his seat by Gascoigne; “I assert, that in this instance killing’s no murder. You will observe, Ned, that by the laws of society, any one who attempts the life of another has forfeited his own; at the same time, as it is necessary that the fact should be clearly proved and justice be duly administered, the parties are tried, convicted, and then are sentenced to the punishment.”

“I grant all that.”

“In this instance the attempt has been clearly proved; we are the witnesses, and are the judges and jury, and society in general, for the best of all possible reasons, because there is nobody else. These men’s lives being therefore forfeited to society, belong to us; and it does not follow because they were not all killed in the attempt, that therefore they are not now to be brought out for punishment. And as there is no common hangman here, we, of course, must do this duty as well as every other. I have now clearly proved that I am justified in what I am about to do. But the argument does not stop there—self-preservation is the first law of nature, and if we do not get rid of this man, what is the consequence? —that we shall have to account for his being wounded, and then, instead of judges, we shall immediately be placed in the position of culprits, and have to defend ourselves without witnesses. We therefore risk our lives from a misplaced lenity towards a wretch unworthy to live.”

“Your last argument is strong, Easy, but I cannot consent to your doing what may occasion you uneasiness hereafter when you think of it.”

“Pooh! nonsense—I am a philosopher.”

“Of what school, Jack? Oh, I presume you are a disciple of Mesty’s. I do not mean to say that you are wrong, but still hear my proposition. Let us lower down the sail, and then I can leave the helm to assist you. We will clear the vessel of everything except the man who is still alive. At all events, we may wait a little, and if at last there is no help for it, I will then agree with you to launch him overboard, even if he is not quite dead.”