The captain then insisted on giving the wounded man a tumblerful of strong whisky, saying "that it was the best thing in the world to kill a fever." They came to the conclusion that there was no danger of the mate passing away quickly owing to the savage kick he made while laying in his bunk, at the head of the inoffensive steward who was doing all he could to help him.

But his wounds proved so severe that he was not able to leave his bunk until the vessel reached Philadelphia.

Owing to the new arrangement, everything went well.

There was no more fighting, cursing, or driving and the work on board was done promptly and cheerfully.
In a conversation with one of the two young fellows who were the special victims of the wounded mate's ferocity, Paul ascertained that he was a delicate and well educated youth from Hartford, Connecticut, whose romantic dream for years had been to go to sea.

He ran away from home and fell into the hands of the master of a sailor's boarding house who robbed him of all he could and put him aboard a ship bound for Hull.
The captain and officers of this ship proved humane, and though not absolutely ill-treated or beaten, his life was a misery.