“Ain’t you going to give them a hand with the sail?” asked Jimmy.

“No. If six ov ’em ain’t ’nough beef to set that blamed, rotten spanker, they ain’t fit to live,” answered Donkin in a bored, far-away voice, as though he had been talking from the bottom of a hole. Jimmy considered the conical, fowl-like profile with a queer kind of interest; he was leaning out of his bunk with the calculating, uncertain expression of a man who reflects how best to lay hold of some strange creature that looks as though it could sting or bite. But he said only:—“The mate will miss you—and there will be ructions.”

Donkin got up to go. “I will do for ’im some dark night; see if I don’t,” he said over his shoulder.

Jimmy went on quickly:—“You’re like a poll-parrot, like a screechin’ poll-parrot.” Donkin stopped and cocked his head attentively on one side. His big ears stood out, transparent and veined, resembling the thin wings of a bat.

“Yuss?” he said, with his back towards Jimmy.

“Yes! Chatter out all you know—like... like a dirty white cockatoo.”

Donkin waited. He could hear the other’s breathing, long and slow; the breathing of a man with a hundredweight or so on the breastbone. Then he asked calmly:—“What do I know?”

“What?... What I tell you... not much. What do you want... to talk about my health so...”

“It’s a blooming imposyshun. A bloomin’, stinkin’, first-class imposyshun—but it don’t tyke me in. Not it.”

Jimmy kept still. Donkin put his hands in his pockets, and in one slouching stride came up to the bunk.

“I talk—what’s the odds. They ain’t men ’ere—sheep they are. A driven lot of sheep. I ’old you up... Vy not? You’re well orf.”

“I am... I don’t say anything about that....”

“Well. Let ’em see it. Let ’em larn what a man can do. I am a man, I know all about yer....” Jimmy threw himself further away on the pillow; the other stretched out his skinny neck, jerked his bird face down at him as though pecking at the eyes. “I am a man. I’ve seen the inside of every chokey in the Colonies rather’n give up my rights....”

“You are a jail-prop,” said Jimmy, weakly.

“I am... an’ proud of it, too. You! You ’aven’t the bloomin’ nerve—so you inventyd this ’ere dodge....” He paused; then with marked afterthought accentuated slowly:—“Yer ain’t sick—are yer?”

“No,” said Jimmy, firmly. “Been out of sorts now and again this year,” he mumbled with a sudden drop in his voice.

Donkin closed one eye, amicable and confidential. He whispered:—“Ye ’ave done this afore’aven’tchee?” Jimmy smiled—then as if unable to hold back he let himself go:—“Last ship—yes. I was out of sorts on the passage. See? It was easy. They paid me off in Calcutta, and the skipper made no bones about it either.... I got my money all right. Laid up fifty-eight days! The fools! O Lord! The fools! Paid right off.” He laughed spasmodically. Donkin chimed in giggling. Then Jimmy coughed violently. “I am as well as ever,” he said, as soon as he could draw breath.

Donkin made a derisive gesture. “In course,” he said, profoundly, “any one can see that.”—“They don’t,” said Jimmy, gasping like a fish.—“They would swallow any yarn,” affirmed Donkin.—“Don’t you let on too much,” admonished Jimmy in an exhausted voice.—“Your little gyme? Eh?” commented Donkin, jovially. Then with sudden disgust: “Yer all for yerself, s’long as ye’re right...”

So charged with egoism James Wait pulled the blanket up to his chin and lay still for a while. His heavy lips protruded in an everlasting black pout. “Why are you so hot on making trouble?” he asked without much interest.

“’Cos it’s a bloomin’ shayme. We are put upon... bad food, bad pay... I want us to kick up a bloomin’ row; a blamed ’owling row that would make ’em remember! Knocking people about... brain us indeed! Ain’t we men?” His altruistic indignation blazed. Then he said calmly:—“I’ve been airing yer clothes.”—“All right,” said Jimmy, languidly, “bring them in.”—“Giv’ us the key of your chest, I’ll put ’em away for yer,” said Donkin with friendly eagerness.—“Bring ’em in, I will put them away myself,” answered James Wait with severity. Donkin looked down, muttering.... “What d’you say? What d’you say?” inquired Wait anxiously.—“Nothink. The night’s dry, let ’em ’ang out till the morning,” said Donkin, in a strangely trembling voice, as though restraining laughter or rage. Jimmy seemed satisfied.—“Give me a little water for the night in my mug—there,” he said. Donkin took a stride over the doorstep.—“Git it yerself,” he replied in a surly tone. “You can do it, unless you are sick.”—“Of course I can do it,” said Wait, “only... “—“Well, then, do it,” said Donkin, viciously, “if yer can look after yer clothes, yer can look after yerself.” He went on deck without a look back.

Jimmy reached out for the mug. Not a drop. He put it back gently with a faint sigh—and closed his eyes. He thought:—That lunatic Belfast will bring me some water if I ask. Fool. I am very thirsty.... It was very hot in the cabin, and it seemed to turn slowly round, detach itself from the ship, and swing out smoothly into a luminous, arid space where a black sun shone, spinning very fast. A place without any water! No water! A policeman with the face of Donkin drank a glass of beer by the side of an empty well, and flew away flapping vigorously. A ship whose mastheads protruded through the sky and could not be seen, was discharging grain, and the wind whirled the dry husks in spirals along the quay of a dock with no water in it. He whirled along with the husks—very tired and light. All his inside was gone. He felt lighter than the husks—and more dry. He expanded his hollow chest. The air streamed in, carrying away in its rush a lot of strange things that resembled houses, trees, people, lamp-posts.... No more! There was no more air—and he had not finished drawing his long breath. But he was in jail! They were locking him up. A door slammed. They turned the key twice, flung a bucket of water over him—Phoo! What for?

He opened his eyes, thinking the fall had been very heavy for an empty man—empty—empty. He was in his cabin. Ah! All right! His face was streaming with perspiration, his arms heavier than lead. He saw the cook standing in the doorway, a brass key in one hand and a bright tin hook-pot in the other.

“I have locked up the galley for the night,” said the cook, beaming benevolently. “Eight bells just gone. I brought you a pot of cold tea for your night’s drinking, Jimmy. I sweetened it with some white cabin sugar, too. Well—it won’t break the ship.”

He came in, hung the pot on the edge of the bunk, asked perfunctorily, “How goes it?” and sat down on the box.—“H’m,” grunted Wait, inhospitably. The cook wiped his face with a dirty cotton rag, which, afterwards, he tied round his neck.—“That’s how them firemen do in steamboats,” he said, serenely, and much pleased with himself. “My work is as heavy as theirs—I’m thinking—and longer hours. Did you ever see them down the stokehold? Like fiends they look—firing—firing—firing—down there.”

He pointed his forefinger at the deck. Some gloomy thought darkened his shining face, fleeting, like the shadow of a travelling cloud over the light of a peaceful sea. The relieved watch tramped noisily forward, passing in a body across the sheen of the doorway. Some one cried, “Good-night!” Belfast stopped for a moment and looked at Jimmy, quivering and speechless with repressed emotion. He gave the cook a glance charged with dismal foreboding, and vanished. The cook cleared his throat. Jimmy stared upwards and kept as still as a man in hiding.

The night was clear, with a gentle breeze. Above the mastheads the resplendent curve of the Milky Way spanned the sky like a triumphal arch of eternal light, thrown over the dark pathway of the earth. On the forecastle head a man whistled with loud precision a lively jig, while another could be heard faintly, shuffling and stamping in time. There came from forward a confused murmur of voices, laughter—snatches of song. The cook shook his head, glanced obliquely at Jimmy, and began to mutter. “Aye. Dance and sing. That’s all they think of. I am surprised that Providence don’t get tired.... They forget the day that’s sure to come... but you....”

Jimmy drank a gulp of tea, hurriedly, as though he had stolen it, and shrank under his blanket, edging away towards the bulkhead. The cook got up, closed the door, then sat down again and said distinctly:—

“Whenever I poke my galley fire I think of you chaps—swearing, stealing, lying, and worse—as if there was no such thing as another world.... Not bad fellows, either, in a way,” he conceded, slowly; then, after a pause of regretful musing, he went on in a resigned tone:—“Well, well. They will have a hot time of it. Hot! Did I say? The furnaces of one of them White Star boats ain’t nothing to it.”

He kept very quiet for a while. There was a great stir in his brain; an addled vision of bright outlines; an exciting row of rousing songs and groans of pain. He suffered, enjoyed, admired, approved. He was delighted, frightened, exalted—as on that evening (the only time in his life—twenty-seven years ago; he loved to recall the number of years) when as a young man he had—through keeping bad company—become intoxicated in an East-end music-hall. A tide of sudden feeling swept him clean out of his body. He soared. He contemplated the secret of the hereafter. It commended itself to him. It was excellent; he loved it, himself, all hands, and Jimmy. His heart overflowed with tenderness, with comprehension, with the desire to meddle, with anxiety for the soul of that black man, with the pride of possessed eternity, with the feeling of might. Snatch him up in his arms and pitch him right into the middle of salvation... The black soul—blacker—body—rot—Devil. No! Talk—strength—Samson.... There was a great din as of cymbals in his ears; he flashed through an ecstatic jumble of shining faces, lilies, prayer-books, unearthly joy, white skirts, gold harps, black coats, wings. He saw flowing garments, clean shaved faces, a sea of light—a lake of pitch. There were sweet scents, a smell of sulphur—red tongues of flame licking a white mist. An awesome voice thundered!... It lasted three seconds.

“Jimmy!” he cried in an inspired tone. Then he hesitated. A spark of human pity glimmered yet through the infernal fog of his supreme conceit.

“What?” said James Wait, unwillingly. There was a silence. He turned his head just the least bit, and stole a cautious glance. The cook’s lips moved without a sound; his face was rapt, his eyes turned up. He seemed to be mentally imploring deck beams, the brass hook of the lamp, two cockroaches.

“Look here,” said Wait, “I want to go to sleep. I think I could.”

“This is no time for sleep!” exclaimed the cook, very loud. He had prayerfully divested himself of the last vestige of his humanity. He was a voice—a fleshless and sublime thing, as on that memorable night—the night when he went walking over the sea to make coffee for perishing sinners. “This is no time for sleeping,” he repeated with exaltation. “I can’t sleep.”

“Don’t care damn,” said Wait, with factitious energy. “I can. Go an’ turn in.”

“Swear... in the very jaws!... In the very jaws! Don’t you see the everlasting fire... don’t you feel it? Blind, chockfull of sin! Repent, repent! I can’t bear to think of you. I hear the call to save you. Night and day. Jimmy, let me save you!” The words of entreaty and menace broke out of him in a roaring torrent. The cockroaches ran away. Jimmy perspired, wriggling stealthily under his blanket. The cook yelled.... “Your days are numbered!... “—“Get out of this,” boomed Wait, courageously.—“Pray with me!... “—“I won’t!...” The little cabin was as hot as an oven. It contained an immensity of fear and pain; an atmosphere of shrieks and moans; prayers vociferated like blasphemies and whispered curses. Outside, the men called by Charley, who informed them in tones of delight that there was a holy row going on in Jimmy’s place, crowded before the closed door, too startled to open it. All hands were there. The watch below had jumped out on deck in their shirts, as after a collision. Men running up, asked:—“What is it?” Others said:—“Listen!” The muffled screaming went on:—“On your knees! On your knees!”—“Shut up!”—“Never! You are delivered into my hands.... Your life has been saved.... Purpose.... Mercy.... Repent.”—“You are a crazy fool!...”—“Account of you... you... Never sleep in this world, if I...”—“Leave off.”—“No!... stokehold... only think!...” Then an impassioned screeching babble where words pattered like hail.—“No!” shouted Wait.—“Yes. You are!... No help.... Everybody says so.”—“You lie!”—“I see you dying this minnyt... before my eyes... as good as dead already.”—“Help!” shouted Jimmy, piercingly.—“Not in this valley.... look upwards,” howled the other.—“Go away! Murder! Help!” clamoured Jimmy. His voice broke. There were moanings, low mutters, a few sobs.

“What’s the matter now?” said a seldom-heard voice.—“Fall back, men! Fall back, there!” repeated Mr. Creighton, sternly, pushing through.—“Here’s the old man,” whispered some.—“The cook’s in there, sir,” exclaimed several, backing away. The door clattered open; a broad stream of light darted out on wondering faces; a warm whiff of vitiated air passed. The two mates towered head and shoulders above the spare, grey-haired man who stood revealed between them, in shabby clothes, stiff and angular, like a small carved figure, and with a thin, composed face. The cook got up from his knees. Jimmy sat high in the bunk, clasping his drawn-up legs. The tassel of the blue night-cap almost imperceptibly trembled over his knees. They gazed astonished at his long, curved back, while the white corner of one eye gleamed blindly at them. He was afraid to turn his head, he shrank within himself; and there was an aspect astounding and animal-like in the perfection of his expectant immobility. A thing of instinct—the unthinking stillness of a scared brute. “What are you doing here?” asked Mr. Baker, sharply.—“My duty,” said the cook, with ardour.—“Your... what?” began the mate. Captain Allistoun touched his arm lightly.—“I know his caper,” he said, in a low voice. “Come out of that, Podmore,” he ordered, aloud.

The cook wrung his hands, shook his fists above his head, and his arms dropped as if too heavy. For a moment he stood distracted and speechless.—“Never,” he stammered, “I... he... I.”—

“What—do—you—say?” pronounced Captain Allistoun. “Come out at once—or...”—“I am going,” said the cook, with a hasty and sombre resignation. He strode over the doorstep firmly—hesitated—made a few steps. They looked at him in silence.—“I make you responsible!” he cried, desperately, turning half round. “That man is dying. I make you... “—“You there yet?” called the master in a threatening tone.—“No, sir,” he exclaimed, hurriedly, in a startled voice. The boatswain led him away by the arm; some one laughed; Jimmy lifted his head for a stealthy glance, and in one unexpected leap sprang out of his bunk; Mr. Baker made a clever catch and felt him very limp in his arms; the group at the door grunted with surprise.—“He lies,” gasped Wait, “he talked about black devils—he is a devil—a white devil—I am all right.” He stiffened himself, and Mr. Baker, experimentally, let him go. He staggered a pace or two; Captain Allistoun watched him with a quiet and penetrating gaze; Belfast ran to his support. He did not appear to be aware of any one near him; he stood silent for a moment, battling single-handed with a legion of nameless terrors, amidst the eager looks of excited men who watched him far off, utterly alone in the impenetrable solitude of his fear. The sea gurgled through the scuppers as the ship heeled over to a short puff of wind.

“Keep him away from me,” said James Wait at last in his fine baritone voice, and leaning with all his weight on Belfast’s neck. “I’ve been better this last week:... I am well... I was going back to duty... to-morrow—now if you like—Captain.” Belfast hitched his shoulders to keep him upright.

“No,” said the master, looking at him, fixedly. Under Jimmy’s armpit Belfast’s red face moved uneasily. A row of eyes gleaming stared on the edge of light. They pushed one another with elbows, turned their heads, whispered. Wait let his chin fall on his breast and, with lowered eyelids, looked round in a suspicious manner.

“Why not?” cried a voice from the shadows, “the man’s all right, sir.”

“I am all right,” said Wait, with eagerness. “Been sick... better... turn-to now.” He sighed.—“Howly Mother!” exclaimed Belfast with a heave of the shoulders, “stand up, Jimmy.”—“Keep away from me then,” said Wait, giving Belfast a petulant push, and reeling fetched against the doorpost. His cheekbones glistened as though they had been varnished. He snatched off his night-cap, wiped his perspiring face with it, flung it on the deck. “I am coming out,” he declared without stirring.

“No. You don’t,” said the master, curtly. Bare feet shuffled, disapproving voices murmured all round; he went on as if he had not heard:—“You have been skulking nearly all the passage and now you want to come out. You think you are near enough to the pay-table now. Smell the shore, hey?”

“I’ve been sick... now—better,” mumbled Wait, glaring in the light.—“You have been shamming sick,” retorted Captain Allistoun with severity; “Why...” he hesitated for less than half a second. “Why, anybody can see that. There’s nothing the matter with you, but you choose to lie-up to please yourself—and now you shall lie-up to please me. Mr. Baker, my orders are that this man is not to be allowed on deck to the end of the passage.”

There were exclamations of surprise, triumph, indignation. The dark group of men swung across the light. “What for?” “Told you so...” “Bloomin’ shame...”—“We’ve got to say somethink about that,” screeched Donkin from the rear.—“Never mind, Jim—we will see you righted,” cried several together. An elderly seaman stepped to the front. “D’ye mean to say, sir,” he asked, ominously, “that a sick chap ain’t allowed to get well in this ’ere hooker?” Behind him Donkin whispered excitedly amongst a staring crowd where no one spared him a glance, but Captain Allistoun shook a forefinger at the angry bronzed face of the speaker.—“You—you hold your tongue,” he said, warningly.—“This isn’t the way,” clamoured two or three younger men.—“Are we bloomin’ masheens?” inquired Donkin in a piercing tone, and dived under the elbows of the front rank.—“Soon show ’im we ain’t boys...”—“The man’s a man if he is black.”—“We ain’t goin’ to work this bloomin’ ship shorthanded if Snowball’s all right...”—“He says he is.”—“Well then, strike, boys, strike!”—“That’s the bloomin’ ticket.” Captain Allistoun said sharply to the second mate: “Keep quiet, Mr. Creighton,” and stood composed in the tumult, listening with profound attention to mixed growls and screeches, to every exclamation and every curse of the sudden outbreak. Somebody slammed the cabin door to with a kick; the darkness full of menacing mutters leaped with a short clatter over the streak of light, and the men became gesticulating shadows that growled, hissed, laughed excitedly. Mr. Baker whispered:—“Get away from them, sir.” The big shape of Mr. Creighton hovered silently about the slight figure of the master.—“We have been hymposed upon all this voyage,” said a gruff voice, “but this ’ere fancy takes the cake.”—“That man is a shipmate.”—“Are we bloomin’ kids?”—“The port watch will refuse duty.” Charley carried away by his feeling whistled shrilly, then yelped:—“Giv’ us our Jimmy!” This seemed to cause a variation in the disturbance. There was a fresh burst of squabbling uproar. A lot of quarrels were set going at once.—“Yes.”—“No.”—“Never been sick.”—“Go for them to once.”—“Shut yer mouth, youngster—-this is men’s work.”—“Is it?” muttered Captain Allistoun, bitterly. Mr. Baker grunted: “Ough! They’re gone silly. They’ve been simmering for the last month.”—“I did notice,” said the master.—“They have started a row amongst themselves now,” said Mr. Creighton with disdain, “better get aft, sir. We will soothe them.—“Keep your temper, Creighton,” said the master. And the three men began to move slowly towards the cabin door.

In the shadows of the fore rigging a dark mass stamped, eddied, advanced, retreated. There were words of reproach, encouragement, unbelief, execration. The elder seamen, bewildered and angry, growled their determination to go through with something or other; but the younger school of advanced thought exposed their and Jimmy’s wrongs with confused shouts, arguing amongst themselves. They clustered round that moribund carcass, the fit emblem of their aspirations, and encouraging one another they swayed, they tramped on one spot, shouting that they would not be “put upon.” Inside the cabin, Belfast, helping Jimmy into his bunk, twitched all over in his desire not to miss all the row, and with difficulty restrained the tears of his facile emotion. James Wait, flat on his back under the blanket, gasped complaints.—“We will back you up, never fear,” assured Belfast, busy about his feet.—

“I’ll come out to-morrow morning———take my chance———-you fellows must———” mumbled Wait, “I come out to-morrow———skipper or no skipper.” He lifted one arm with great difficulty, passed the hand over his face; “Don’t you let that cook...” he breathed out.—“No, no,” said Belfast, turning his back on the bunk, “I will put a head on him if he comes near you.”—“I will smash his mug!” exclaimed faintly Wait, enraged and weak; “I don’t want to kill a man, but...” He panted fast like a dog after a run in sunshine. Some one just outside the door shouted, “He’s as fit as any ov us!” Belfast put his hand on the door-handle.—“Here!” called James Wait, hurriedly, and in such a clear voice that the other spun round with a start. James Wait, stretched out black and deathlike in the dazzling light, turned his head on the pillow. His eyes stared at Belfast, appealing and impudent. “I am rather weak from lying-up so long,” he said, distinctly. Belfast nodded. “Getting quite well now,” insisted Wait.—“Yes. I noticed you getting better this... last month,” said Belfast, looking down. “Hallo! What’s this?” he shouted and ran out.

He was flattened directly against the side of the house by two men who lurched against him. A lot of disputes seemed to be going on all round. He got clear and saw three indistinct figures standing along in the fainter darkness under the arched foot of the mainsail, that rose above their heads like a convex wall of a high edifice. Donkin hissed:—“Go for them... it’s dark!” The crowd took a short run aft in a body—then there was a check. Donkin, agile and thin, flitted past with his right arm going like a windmill—and then stood still suddenly with his arm pointing rigidly above his head. The hurtling flight of some heavy object was heard; it passed between the heads of the two mates, bounded heavily along the deck, struck the after hatch with a ponderous and deadened blow. The bulky shape of Mr. Baker grew distinct. “Come to your senses, men!” he cried, advancing at the arrested crowd. “Come back, Mr. Baker!” called the master’s quiet voice. He obeyed unwillingly. There was a minute of silence, then a deafening hubbub arose. Above it Archie was heard energetically:—“If ye do oot ageen I wull tell!” There were shouts. “Don’t!” “Drop it!”—“We ain’t that kind!” The black cluster of human forms reeled against the bulwark, back again towards the house. Ringbolts rang under stumbling feet.—“Drop it!” “Let me!”—“No!”—“Curse you... hah!” Then sounds as of some one’s face being slapped; a piece of iron fell on the deck; a short scuffle, and some one’s shadowy body scuttled rapidly across the main hatch before the shadow of a kick. A raging voice sobbed out a torrent of filthy language...—“Throwing things—good God!” grunted Mr. Baker in dismay.—“That was meant for me,” said the master, quietly; “I felt the wind of that thing; what was it—an iron belaying-pin?”—“By Jove!” muttered Mr. Creighton. The confused voices of men talking amidships mingled with the wash of the sea, ascended between the silent and distended sails seemed to flow away into the night, further than the horizon, higher than the sky. The stars burned steadily over the inclined mastheads. Trails of light lay on the water, broke before the advancing hull, and, after she had passed, trembled for a long time as if in awe of the murmuring sea.

Meantime the helmsman, anxious to know what the row was about, had let go the wheel, and, bent double, ran with long, stealthy footsteps to the break of the poop. The Narcissus, left to herself, came up gently in to the wind without any one being aware of it. She gave a slight roll, and the sleeping sails woke suddenly, coming all together with a mighty flap against the masts, then filled again one after another in a quick succession of loud reports that ran down the lofty spars, till the collapsed mainsail flew out last with a violent jerk. The ship trembled from trucks to keel; the sails kept on rattling like a discharge of musketry; the chain sheets and loose shackles jingled aloft in a thin peal; the gin blocks groaned. It was as if an invisible hand had given the ship an angry shake to recall the men that peopled her decks to the sense of reality, vigilance, and duty.—“Helm up!” cried the master, sharply. “Run aft, Mr. Creighton, and see what that fool there is up to.”—“Flatten in the head sheets. Stand by the weather fore-braces,” growled Mr. Baker. Startled men ran swiftly repeating the orders. The watch below, abandoned all at once by the watch on deck, drifted towards the forecastle in twos and threes, arguing noisily as they went—“We shall see to-morrow!” cried a loud voice, as if to cover with a menacing hint an inglorious retreat. And then only orders were heard, the falling of heavy coils of rope, the rattling of blocks. Singleton’s white head flitted here and there in the night, high above the deck, like the ghost of a bird.—“Going off, sir!” shouted Mr. Creighton from aft.—“Full again.”—“All right... “—“Ease off the head sheets. That will do the braces. Coil the ropes up,” grunted Mr. Baker, bustling about.

Gradually the tramping noises, the confused sound of voices, died out, and the officers, coming together on the poop, discussed the events. Mr. Baker was bewildered and grunted; Mr. Creighton was calmly furious; but Captain Allistoun was composed and thoughtful. He listened to Mr. Baker’s growling argumentation, to Creighton’s interjected and severe remarks, while looking down on the deck he weighed in his hand the iron belaying-pin—that a moment ago had just missed his head—as if it had been the only tangible fact of the whole transaction. He was one of those commanders who speak little, seem to hear nothing, look at no one—and know everything, hear every whisper, see every fleeting shadow of their ship’s life. His two big officers towered above his lean, short figure; they talked over his head; they were dismayed, surprised, and angry, while between them the little quiet man seemed to have found his taciturn serenity in the profound depths of a larger experience. Lights were burning in the forecastle; now and then a loud gust of babbling chatter came from forward, swept over the decks, and became faint, as if the unconscious ship, gliding gently through the great peace of the sea, had left behind and for ever the foolish noise of turbulent mankind. But it was renewed again and again. Gesticulating arms, profiles of heads with open mouths appeared for a moment in the illuminated squares of doorways; black fists darted—withdrew... “Yes. It was most damnable to have such an unprovoked row sprung on one,” assented the master. ... A tumult of yells rose in the light, abruptly ceased.... He didn’t think there would be any further trouble just then.... A bell was struck aft, another, forward, answered in a deeper tone, and the clamour of ringing metal spread round the ship in a circle of wide vibrations that ebbed away into the immeasurable night of an empty sea.... Didn’t he know them! Didn’t he! In past years. Better men, too. Real men to stand by one in a tight place. Worse than devils too sometimes—downright, horned devils. Pah! This— nothing. A miss as good as a mile.... The wheel was being relieved in the usual way—“Full and by,” said, very loud, the man going off.—“Full and by,” repeated the other, catching hold of the spokes.—“This head wind is my trouble,” exclaimed the master, stamping his foot in sudden anger; “head wind! all the rest is nothing.” He was calm again in a moment. “Keep them on the move to-night, gentlemen; just to let them feel we’ve got hold all the time—quietly, you know. Mind you keep your hands off them, Creighton. To-morrow I will talk to them like a Dutch Uncle. A crazy crowd of tinkers! Yes, tinkers! I could count the real sailors amongst them on the fingers of one hand. Nothing will do but a row—if—you—please.” He paused. “Did you think I had gone wrong there, Mr. Baker?” He tapped his forehead, laughed short. “When I saw him standing there, three parts dead and so scared—black amongst that gaping lot—no grit to face what’s coming to us all—the notion came to me all at once, before I could think. Sorry for him—like you would be for a sick brute. If ever creature was in a mortal funk to die!... I thought I would let him go out in his own way. Kind of impulse. It never came into my head, those fools.... H’m! Stand to it now—of course.” He stuck the belaying-pin in his pocket, seemed ashamed of himself, then sharply:—“If you see Podmore at his tricks again tell him I will have him put under the pump. Had to do it once before. The fellow breaks out like that now and then. Good cook tho’.” He walked away quickly, came back to the companion. The two mates followed him through the starlight with amazed eyes. He went down three steps, and changing his tone, spoke with his head near the deck:—“I shan’t turn in to-night, in case of anything; just call out if... Did you see the eyes of that sick nigger, Mr. Baker? I fancied he begged me for something. What? Past all help. One lone black beggar amongst the lot of us, and he seemed to look through me into the very hell. Fancy, this wretched Podmore! Well, let him die in peace. I am master here after all. Let him be. He might have been half a man once... Keep a good look-out.” He disappeared down below, leaving his mates facing one another, and more impressed than if they had seen a stone image shed a miraculous tear of compassion over the incertitudes of life and death....

In the blue mist spreading from twisted threads that stood upright in the bowls of pipes, the forecastle appeared as vast as a hall. Between the beams a heavy cloud stagnated; and the lamps surrounded by halos burned each at the core of a purple glow in two lifeless flames without rays. Wreaths drifted in denser wisps. Men sprawled about on the deck, sat in negligent poses, or, bending a knee, drooped with one shoulder against a bulkhead. Lips moved, eyes flashed, waving arms made sudden eddies in the smoke. The murmur of voices seemed to pile itself higher and higher as if unable to run out quick enough through the narrow doors. The watch below in their shirts, and striding on long white legs, resembled raving somnambulists; while now and then one of the watch on deck would rush in, looking strangely over-dressed, listen a moment, fling a rapid sentence into the noise and run out again; but a few remained near the door, fascinated, and with one ear turned to the deck. “Stick together, boys,” roared Davis. Belfast tried to make himself heard. Knowles grinned in a slow, dazed way. A short fellow with a thick clipped beard kept on yelling periodically:—“Who’s afeard? Who’s afeard?” Another one jumped up, excited, with blazing eyes, sent out a string of unattached curses and sat down quietly. Two men discussed familiarly, striking one another’s breast in turn, to clinch arguments. Three others, with their heads in a bunch, spoke all together with a confidential air, and at the top of their voices. It was a stormy chaos of speech where intelligible fragments tossing, struck the ear. One could hear:—“In the last ship”—“Who cares? Try it on any one of us if———-.”

“Knock under”—“Not a hand’s turn”—“He says he is all right”—“I always thought”—“Never mind....” Donkin, crouching all in a heap against the bowsprit, hunched his shoulderblades as high as his ears, and hanging a peaked nose, resembled a sick vulture with ruffled plumes. Belfast, straddling his legs, had a face red with yelling, and with arms thrown up, figured a Maltese cross. The two Scandinavians, in a corner, had the dumbfounded and distracted aspect of men gazing at a cataclysm. And, beyond the light, Singleton stood in the smoke, monumental, indistinct, with his head touching the beam; like a statue of heroic size in the gloom of a crypt.

He stepped forward, impassive and big. The noise subsided like a broken wave: but Belfast cried once more with uplifted arms:—“The man is dying I tell ye!” then sat down suddenly on the hatch and took his head between his hands. All looked at Singleton, gazing upwards from the deck, staring out of dark corners, or turning their heads with curious glances. They were expectant and appeased as if that old man, who looked at no one, had possessed the secret of their uneasy indignations and desires, a sharper vision, a clearer knowledge. And indeed standing there amongst them, he had the uninterested appearance of one who had seen multitudes of ships, had listened many times to voices such as theirs, had already seen all that could happen on the wide seas. They heard his voice rumble in his broad chest as though the words had been rolling towards them out of a rugged past. “What do you want to do?” he asked. No one answered. Only Knowles muttered—“Aye, aye,” and somebody said low:—“It’s a bloomin’ shame.” He waited, made a contemptuous gesture.—“I have seen rows aboard ship before some of you were born,” he said, slowly, “for something or nothing; but never for such a thing.”—“The man is dying, I tell ye,” repeated Belfast, woefully, sitting at Singleton’s feet.—“And a black fellow, too,” went on the old seaman, “I have seen them die like flies.” He stopped, thoughtful, as if trying to recollect gruesome things, details of horrors, hecatombs of niggers. They looked at him fascinated. He was old enough to remember slavers, bloody mutinies, pirates perhaps; who could tell through what violences and terrors he had lived! What would he say? He said:—“You can’t help him; die he must.” He made another pause. His moustache and beard stirred. He chewed words, mumbled behind tangled white hairs; incomprehensible and exciting, like an oracle behind a veil....—“Stop ashore———sick.———-Instead———bringing all this head wind. Afraid. The sea will have her own.———Die in sight of land. Always so. They know it———long passage———more days, more dollars.———You——”

He seemed to wake up from a dream. “You can’t help yourselves,” he said, austerely, “Skipper’s no fool. He has something in his mind. Look out—say! I know ’em!” With eyes fixed in front he turned his head from right to left, from left to right, as if inspecting a long row of astute skippers.—“’Ee said ’ee would brain me!” cried Donkin in a heartrending tone. Singleton peered downwards with puzzled attention, as though he couldn’t find him.—“Damn you!” he said, vaguely, giving it up. He radiated unspeakable wisdom, hard unconcern, the chilling air of resignation. Round him all the listeners felt themselves somehow completely enlightened by their disappointment, and mute, they lolled about with the careless ease of men who can discern perfectly the irremediable aspect of their existence. He, profound and unconscious, waved his arm once, and strode out on deck without another word.

Belfast was lost in a round-eyed meditation. One or two vaulted heavily into upper berths, and, once there, sighed; others dived head first inside lower bunks—swift, and turning round instantly upon themselves, like animals going into lairs. The grating of a knife scraping burnt clay was heard. Knowles grinned no more. Davis said, in a tone of ardent conviction: “Then our skipper’s looney.” Archie muttered: “My faith! we haven’t heard the last of it yet!” Four bells were struck.—“Half our watch below gone!” cried Knowles in alarm, then reflected. “Well, two hours’ sleep is something towards a rest,” he observed, consolingly. Some already pretended to slumber; and Charley, sound asleep, suddenly said a few slurred words in an arbitrary, blank voice.—“This blamed boy has worrums!” commented Knowles from under a blanket, in a learned manner. Belfast got up and approached Archie’s berth.—“We pulled him out,” he whispered, sadly.—“What?” said the other, with sleepy discontent.—“And now we will have to chuck him overboard,” went on Belfast, whose lower lip trembled.—“Chuck what?” asked Archie.—“Poor Jimmy,” breathed out Belfast.—“He be blowed!” said Archie with untruthful brutality, and sat up in his bunk; “It’s all through him. If it hadn’t been for me, there would have been murder on board this ship!”—“’Tain’t his fault, is it?” argued Belfast, in a murmur; “I’ve put him to bed... an’ he ain’t no heavier than an empty beef-cask,” he added, with tears in his eyes. Archie looked at him steadily, then turned his nose to the ship’s side with determination. Belfast wandered about as though he had lost his way in the dim forecastle, and nearly fell over Donkin. He contemplated him from on high for a while. “Ain’t ye going to turn in?” he asked. Donkin looked up hopelessly.—“That black’earted Scotch son of a thief kicked me!” he whispered from the floor, in a tone of utter desolation.—“And a good job, too!” said Belfast, still very depressed; “You were as near hanging as damn-it to-night, sonny. Don’t you play any of your murthering games around my Jimmy! You haven’t pulled him out. You just mind! ’Cos if I start to kick you”—he brightened up a bit—“if I start to kick you, it will be Yankee fashion—to break something!” He tapped lightly with his knuckles the top of the bowed head. “You moind that, my bhoy!” he concluded, cheerily. Donkin let it pass.—“Will they split on me?” he asked, with pained anxiety.—“Who—split?” hissed Belfast, coming back a step. “I would split your nose this minyt if I hadn’t Jimmy to look after! Who d’ye think we are?” Donkin rose and watched Belfast’s back lurch through the doorway. On all sides invisible men slept, breathing calmly. He seemed to draw courage and fury from the peace around him. Venomous and thin-faced, he glared from the ample misfit of borrowed clothes as if looking for something he could smash. His heart leaped wildly in his narrow chest. They slept! He wanted to wring necks, gouge eyes, spit on faces. He shook a dirty pair of meagre fists at the smoking lights. “Ye’re no men!” he cried, in a deadened tone. No one moved. “Yer ’aven’t the pluck of a mouse!” His voice rose to a husky screech. Wamibo darted out a dishevelled head, and looked at him wildly. “Ye’re sweepings ov ships! I ’ope you will all rot before you die!” Wamibo blinked, uncomprehending but interested. Donkin sat down heavily; he blew with force through quivering nostrils, he ground and snapped his teeth, and, with the chin pressed hard against the breast, he seemed busy gnawing his way through it, as if to get at the heart within....

In the morning the ship, beginning another day of her wandering life, had an aspect of sumptuous freshness, like the spring-time of the earth. The washed decks glistened in a long clear stretch; the oblique sunlight struck the yellow brasses in dazzling splashes, darted over the polished rods in lines of gold, and the single drops of salt water forgotten here and there along the rail were as limpid as drops of dew, and sparkled more than scattered diamonds. The sails slept, hushed by a gentle breeze. The sun, rising lonely and splendid in the blue sky, saw a solitary ship gliding close-hauled on the blue sea.

The men pressed three deep abreast of the mainmast and opposite the cabin-door. They shuffled, pushed, had an irresolute mien and stolid faces. At every slight movement Knowles lurched heavily on his short leg. Donkin glided behind backs, restless and anxious, like a man looking for an ambush. Captain Allistoun came out on the quarter-deck suddenly. He walked to and fro before the front. He was grey, slight, alert, shabby in the sunshine, and as hard as adamant. He had his right hand in the side-pocket of his jacket, and also something heavy in there that made folds all down that side. One of the seamen cleared his throat ominously.—“I haven’t till now found fault with you men,” said the master, stopping short. He faced them with his worn, steely gaze, that by a universal illusion looked straight into every individual pair of the twenty pairs of eyes before his face. At his back Mr. Baker, gloomy and bull-necked, grunted low; Mr. Creighton, fresh as paint, had rosy cheeks and a ready, resolute bearing. “And I don’t now,” continued the master; “but I am here to drive this ship and keep every man-jack aboard of her up to the mark. If you knew your work as well as I do mine, there would be no trouble. You’ve been braying in the dark about ‘See to-morrow morning!’ Well, you see me now. What do you want?” He waited, stepping quickly to and fro, giving them searching glances. What did they want? They shifted from foot to foot, they balanced their bodies; some, pushing back their caps, scratched their heads. What did they want? Jimmy was forgotten; no one thought of him, alone forward in his cabin, fighting great shadows, clinging to brazen lies, chuckling painfully over his transparent deceptions. No, not Jimmy; he was more forgotten than if he had been dead. They wanted great things. And suddenly all the simple words they knew seemed to be lost for ever in the immensity of their vague and burning desire. They knew what they wanted, but they could not find anything worth saying. They stirred on one spot, swinging, at the end of muscular arms, big tarry hands with crooked fingers. A murmur died out.—“What is it—food?” asked the master, “you know the stores have been spoiled off the Cape.”—“We know that, sir,” said a bearded shell-back in the front rank.—“Work too hard—eh? Too much for your strength?” he asked again. There was an offended silence.—“We don’t want to go shorthanded, sir,” began at last Davis in a wavering voice, “and this ’ere black....”—“Enough!” cried the master. He stood scanning them for a moment, then walking a few steps this way and that began to storm at them coldly, in gusts violent and cutting like the gales of those icy seas that had known his youth.—“Tell you what’s the matter? Too big for your boots. Think yourselves damn good men. Know half your work. Do half your duty. Think it too much. If you did ten times as much it wouldn’t be enough.”—“We did our best by her, sir,” cried some one with shaky exasperation.—“Your best,” stormed on the master; “You hear a lot on shore, don’t you? They don’t tell you there your best isn’t much to boast of. I tell you—your best is no better than bad.” “You can do no more? No, I know, and say nothing. But you stop your caper or I will stop it for you. I am ready for you! Stop it!” He shook a finger at the crowd. “As to that man,” he raised his voice very much; “as to that man, if he puts his nose out on deck without my leave I will clap him in irons. There!” The cook heard him forward, ran out of the galley lifting his arms, horrified, unbelieving, amazed, and ran in again. There was a moment of profound silence during which a bow-legged seaman, stepping aside, expectorated decorously into the scupper. “There is another thing,” said the master, calmly. He made a quick stride and with a swing took an iron belaying-pin out of his pocket. “This!” His movement was so unexpected and sudden that the crowd stepped back. He gazed fixedly at their faces, and some at once put on a surprised air as though they had never seen a belaying-pin before. He held it up. “This is my affair. I don’t ask you any questions, but you all know it; it has got to go where it came from.” His eyes became angry. The crowd stirred uneasily. They looked away from the piece of iron, they appeared shy, they were embarrassed and shocked as though it had been something horrid, scandalous, or indelicate, that in common decency should not have been flourished like this in broad daylight. The master watched them attentively. “Donkin,” he called out in a short, sharp tone.

Donkin dodged behind one, then behind another, but they looked over their shoulders and moved aside. The ranks kept on opening before him, closing behind, till at last he appeared alone before the master as though he had come up through the deck. Captain Allistoun moved close to him. They were much of a size, and at short range the master exchanged a deadly glance with the beady eyes. They wavered.—“You know this?” asked the master.—“No, I don’t,” answered the other, with cheeky trepidation.—“You are a cur. Take it,” ordered the master. Donkin’s arms seemed glued to his thighs; he stood, eyes front, as if drawn on parade. “Take it,” repeated the master, and stepped closer; they breathed on one another. “Take it,” said Captain Allistoun again, making a menacing gesture. Donkin tore away one arm from his side.—“Vy are yer down on me?” he mumbled with effort and as if his mouth had been full of dough.—“If you don’t...” began the master. Donkin snatched at the pin as though his intention had been to run away with it, and remained stock still holding it like a candle. “Put it back where you took it from,” said Captain Allistoun, looking at him fiercely. Donkin stepped back opening wide eyes. “Go, you blackguard, or I will make you,” cried the master, driving him slowly backwards by a menacing advance. He dodged, and with the dangerous iron tried to guard his head from a threatening fist. Mr. Baker ceased grunting for a moment.—“Good! By Jove,” murmured appreciatively Mr. Creighton in the tone of a connoisseur.—“Don’t tech me,” snarled Donkin, backing away.—“Then go. Go faster.”—“Don’t yer ’it me.... I will pull yer up afore the magistryt.... I’ll show yer up.” Captain Allistoun made a long stride, and Donkin, turning his back fairly, ran off a little, then stopped and over his shoulder showed yellow teeth.—“Further on, fore-rigging,” urged the master, pointing with his arm.—“Are yer goin’ to stand by and see me bullied?” screamed Donkin at the silent crowd that watched him. Captain Allistoun walked at him smartly. He started off again with a leap, dashed at the fore-rigging, rammed the pin into its hole violently. “I’ll be even with yer yet,” he screamed at the ship at large and vanished beyond the foremast. Captain Allistoun spun round and walked back aft with a composed face, as though he had already forgotten the scene. Men moved out of his way. He looked at no one.—“That will do, Mr. Baker. Send the watch below,” he said, quietly. “And you men try to walk straight for the future,” he added in a calm voice. He looked pensively for a while at the backs of the impressed and retreating crowd. “Breakfast, steward,” he called in a tone of relief through the cabin door.—“I didn’t like to see you—Ough!—give that pin to that chap, sir,” observed Mr. Baker; “he could have bust—Ough!—bust your head like an eggshell with it.”—“O! he!” muttered the master, absently. “Queer lot,” he went on in a low voice. “I suppose it’s all right now. Can never tell tho’ nowadays, with such a... Years ago; I was a young master then—one China voyage I had a mutiny; real mutiny, Baker. Different men tho’. I knew what they wanted: they wanted to broach the cargo and get at the liquor. Very simple.... We knocked them about for two days, and when they had enough—gentle as lambs. Good crew. And a smart trip I made.” He glanced aloft at the yards braced sharp up. “Head wind day after day,” he exclaimed, bitterly. “Shall we never get a decent slant this passage?”—“Ready, sir,” said the steward, appearing before them as if by magic and with a stained napkin in his hand.—“Ah! All right. Come along, Mr. Baker—it’s late—with all this nonsense.”