He sat down under the trap door of the main-cabin floor and thought for a solid hour.  It was the Jew again, he concluded—­the Jew who had been willing to equip the Mary Turner with two chronometers, but not with three; the Jew who had ratified the agreement of a sufficient supply to permit Daughtry his daily six quarts.  Once again the steward counted the cases to make sure.  There were three.  And since each case contained two dozen quarts, and since his whack each day was half a dozen quarts, it was patent that, the supply that stared him in the face would last him only twelve days.  And twelve days were none too long to sail from this unidentifiable naked sea-stretch to the nearest possible port where beer could be purchased.

The steward, once his mind was made up, wasted no time.  The clock marked a quarter before twelve when he climbed up out of the lazarette, replaced the trapdoor, and hurried to set the table.  He served the company through the noon meal, although it was all he could do to refrain from capsizing the big tureen of split-pea soup over the head of Simon Nishikanta.  What did effectually withstrain him was the knowledge of the act which in the lazarette he had already determined to perform that afternoon down in the main hold where the water-casks were stored.

At three o’clock, while the Ancient Mariner supposedly drowned in his room, and while Captain Doane, Grimshaw, and half the watch on deck clustered at the mast-heads to try to raise the Lion’s Head from out the sapphire sea, Dag Daughtry dropped down the ladder of the open hatchway into the main hold.  Here, in long tiers, with alleyways between, the water-casks were chocked safely on their sides.

From inside his shirt the steward drew a brace, and to it fitted a half-inch bit from his hip-pocket.  On his knees, he bored through the head of the first cask until the water rushed out upon the deck and flowed down into the bilge.  He worked quickly, boring cask after cask down the alleyway that led to deeper twilight.  When he had reached the end of the first row of casks he paused a moment to listen to the gurglings of the many half-inch streams running to waste.  His quick ears caught a similar gurgling from the right in the direction of the next alleyway.  Listening closely, he could have sworn he heard the sounds of a bit biting into hard wood.

A minute later, his own brace and bit carefully secreted, his hand was descending on the shoulder of a man he could not recognize in the gloom, but who, on his knees and wheezing, was steadily boring into the head of a cask.  The culprit made no effort to escape, and when Daughtry struck a match he gazed down into the upturned face of the Ancient Mariner.

“My word!” the steward muttered his amazement softly.  “What in hell are you running water out for?”

He could feel the old man’s form trembling with violent nervousness, and his own heart smote him for gentleness.