Roger groaned inwardly, and felt more dead than alive.

Tim wriggled on his chair like a half-skinned eel.

The chief cook’s eyes were wildly dancing, and his long working cap rose up to a prodigious height, while, with open mouth, he stood shivering and shaking.

The others were in a state of collapse, and almost slipped off their seats, while they looked about in trembling fear.

The chief of the Skeleton Crew made a sign to some of his grim attendants to listen to all he had to say.

Turning to the chief cook, butler, and pantryman he said, in a sharp, hissing tone,

“Wine—the best—quick!”

Roger and Tim rose from their seats like a shot, but were each slapped on the head by a hard bony hand, which made their jaws rattle again.

Three grim skeleton guards followed the cook, butler, and pantryman, to see that their captain’s orders were carefully obeyed.

The wine was soon produced.

“Where are the silver goblets?” the chief asked, sternly.

These were soon found.

Each skeleton filled his goblet to the brim, and raised it aloft.

“Here’s to the Skeleton Crew of the Phantom Ship!” he said; “confusion to our enemies.”

In a moment the wine was quaffed.

The terrified servants did not know what was coming next, and looked on gasping like so many stranded fish.

“Remove the table,” said the chief; “let us have plenty of room, we have much business to do.”

“They are going to murder every mother’s son of us,” groaned Roger.

Tim began to think seriously of saying some short prayer.

But they had to swallow their own feelings and fears, nor did any of them dare speak, for behind each stood a skeleton, dagger in hand.

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