The Mutiny of the Elsinore E-Book

Jack London

• Herausgeber: ShadowPOET
• Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2023

Beschreibung

The Mutiny of the Elsinore

From the first the voyage was going wrong. Routed out of my hotel on a bitter March morning, I had crossed Baltimore and reached the pier-end precisely on time. At nine o’clock the tug was to have taken me down the bay and put me on board the Elsinore, and with growing irritation I sat frozen inside my taxicab and waited. On the seat, outside, the driver and Wada sat hunched in a temperature perhaps half a degree colder than mine. And there was no tug.

Possum, the fox-terrier puppy Galbraith had so inconsiderately foisted upon me, whimpered and shivered on my lap inside my greatcoat and under the fur robe. But he would not settle down.

Leseprobe

TheMutinyoftheElsinore

ByJackLondon

THEMUTINYOFTHEELSINORE

CHAPTERI

From the first the voyage was going wrong. Routed out of my hotel on a bitterMarchmorning,IhadcrossedBaltimoreandreachedthepier-endpreciselyontime. At nine o’clock the tug was to have taken me down the bay and put meon board the Elsinore, and with growing irritation I sat frozen inside mytaxicab and waited. On the seat, outside, the driver and Wada sat hunched in atemperatureperhapshalfadegreecolderthanmine.Andtherewasnotug.

Possum, the fox-terrier puppy Galbraith had so inconsiderately foisted uponme, whimpered and shivered on my lap inside my greatcoat and under the furrobe. But he would not settle down. Continually he whimpered and clawedand struggled to get out. And, once out and bitten by the cold, with equalinsistencehewhimperedandclawedtogetback.

His unceasing plaint and movement was anything but sedative to my janglednerves. In the first place I was uninterested in the brute. He meant nothing tome. I did not know him. Time and again, as I drearily waited, I was on theverge of giving him to the driver. Once, when two little girls—evidently thewharfinger’sdaughters—wentby,myhandreachedouttothedoortoopenit

sothatImightcalltothemandpresentthemwiththepulinglittlewretch.

A farewell surprise package from Galbraith, he had arrived at the hotel the night before, by express from New York.It was Galbraith’s way.Yet hemightsoeasilyhavebeendecentlylikeotherfolkandsentfruit...orflowers,even.But no; his affectionate inspiration had to take the form of a yelping,yappingtwomonths’oldpuppy.Andwiththeadventoftheterrierthetroublehad begun. The hotel clerk judged me a criminal before the act I had not evenhad time to meditate. And then Wada, on his own initiative and out of his ownfoolishstupidity,hadattemptedtosmugglethepuppyintohisroomandbeencaughtbyahousedetective.PromptlyWadahadforgottenallhisEnglishandlapsedintohystericalJapanese,andthehousedetectiverememberedonlyhisIrish;whilethehotelclerkhadgivenmetounderstandinnouncertaintermsthatitwasonlywhathehadexpectedofme.

Damn the dog, anyway! And damn Galbraith too! And as I froze on in the cabon that bleak pier-end, I damned myself as well, and the mad freak that hadstartedmevoyagingonasailing-shiparoundtheHorn.

Byteno’clockanondescriptyoutharrivedonfoot,carryingasuit-case,whichwasturnedovertomeafewminuteslaterbythewharfinger.Itbelongedtothepilot, he said, and gave instructions to the chauffeur how to find some otherpier from which, at some indeterminate time, I should be taken aboard theElsinore by some other tug. This served to increase my irritation. Why shouldInothavebeeninformedaswellasthepilot?

Anhourlater,stillinmycabandstationedattheshoreendofthenewpier,thepilot arrived. Anything more unlike a pilot I could not have imagined. Herewasnoblue-jacketed,weather-beatensonofthesea,butasoft-spokengentleman, for all the world the type of successful business man one meets inall the clubs. He introduced himself immediately, and I invited him to sharemy freezing cab with Possum and the baggage. That some change had beenmadeinthearrangementsbyCaptainWestwasallheknew,thoughhefanciedthetugwouldcomealonganytime.

And it did, at one in the afternoon, after I had been compelled to wait andfreeze for four mortal hours. During this time I fully made up my mind that Iwas not going to like this Captain West. Although I had never met him, histreatment of me from the outset had been, to say the least, cavalier. When theElsinorelayinErieBasin,justarrivedfromCaliforniawithacargoofbarley,IhadcrossedoverfromNewYorktoinspectwhatwastobemyhomeformanymonths.Ihadbeendelightedwiththeshipandthecabinaccommodation.

Even the stateroom selected for me was satisfactory and far more spaciousthan I had expected. But when I peeped into the captain’s room I was amazedat its comfort. When I say that it opened directly into a bath-room, and that,amongotherthings,itwasfurnishedwithabigbrassbedsuchasonewould

neversuspecttofindatsea,Ihavesaidenough.

Naturally, I had resolved that the bath-room and the big brass bed should bemine. When I asked the agents to arrange with the captain they seemed non-committal and uncomfortable. “I don’t know in the least what it is worth,” Isaid. “And I don’t care. Whether it costs one hundred and fifty dollars or fivehundred,Imusthavethosequarters.”

Harrison and Gray, the agents, debated silently with each other and scarcelythought Captain West would see his way to the arrangement. “Then he is thefirst sea captain I ever heard of that wouldn’t,” I asserted confidently. “Why,thecaptainsofalltheAtlanticlinersregularlyselltheirquarters.”

“But Captain West is not the captain of an Atlantic liner,” Mr. Harrisonobservedgently.

“Remember,Iamtobeonthatshipmanyamonth,”Iretorted.“Why,heavens,bidhimuptoathousandifnecessary.”

“We’lltry,”saidMr.Gray,“butwewarnyounottoplacetoomuchdependence on our efforts. Captain West is in Searsport at the present time,andwewillwritehimto-day.”

TomyastonishmentMr.Graycalledmeupseveraldayslatertoinformmethat Captain West had declined my offer. “Did you offer him up to athousand?”Idemanded.“Whatdidhesay?”

“Heregrettedthathewasunabletoconcedewhatyouasked,”Mr.Grayreplied.

AdaylaterIreceivedaletterfromCaptainWest.Thewritingandthewordingwere old-fashioned and formal.He regretted not having yet met me, andassured me that he would see personally that my quarters were madecomfortable. For that matter he had already dispatched orders to Mr. Pike, thefirst mate of the Elsinore, to knock out the partition between my state-roomand the spare state-room adjoining. Further—and here is where my dislike forCaptainWestbegan—heinformedmethatif,whenoncewellatsea,Ishouldfindmyselfdissatisfied,hewouldgladly,inthatcase,exchangequarterswithme.

Ofcourse,aftersucharebuff,Iknewthatnocircumstancecouldeverpersuade me to occupy Captain West’s brass bed. And it was this CaptainNathaniel West, whom I had not yet met, who had now kept me freezing onpier-ends through four miserable hours. The less I saw of him on the voyagethe better, was my decision; and it was with a little tickle of pleasure that Ithought of the many boxes of books I had dispatched on board from NewYork.ThanktheLord,Ididnotdependonseacaptainsforentertainment.

IturnedPossumovertoWada,whowassettlingwiththecabman,andwhile

the tug’s sailors were carrying my luggage on board I was led by the pilot toan introduction with Captain West. At the first glimpse I knew that he was nomore a sea captain than the pilot was a pilot. I had seen the best of the breed,thecaptainsoftheliners,andhenomoreresembledthemthandidheresemble the bluff-faced, gruff-voiced skippers I had read about in books. Byhis side stood a woman, of whom little was to be seen and who made a warmand gorgeous blob of colour in the huge muff and boa of red fox in which shewaswell-nighburied.

“My God!—his wife!” I darted in a whisper at the pilot. “Going along withhim?...”

I had expressly stipulated with Mr. Harrison, when engaging passage, that theone thing I could not possibly consider was the skipper of the Elsinoretakinghis wife on the voyage. And Mr. Harrison had smiled and assured me thatCaptainWestwouldsailunaccompaniedbyawife.

“It’s his daughter,” the pilot replied under his breath. “Come to see him off, Ifancy. His wife died over a year ago. They say that is what sent him back tosea.He’dretired,youknow.”

Captain West advanced to meet me, and before our outstretched handstouched, before his face broke from repose to greeting and the lips moved tospeech, I got the first astonishing impact of his personality. Long, lean, in hisfaceatouchofraceIasyetcouldonlysense,hewasascoolasthedaywascold,aspoisedasakingoremperor,asremoteasthefarthestfixedstar,asneutralasapropositionofEuclid.Andthen,justereourhandsmet,atwinkleof—oh—suchdistantandcontrolledgenialityquickenedthemanytinywrinklesinthecorneroftheeyes;theclearblueoftheeyeswassuffusedbyanalmostcolourfulwarmth;theface,too,seemedsimilarlytosuffuse;thethinlips,harsh-settheinstantbefore,wereasgraciousasBernhardt’swhenshemouldssoundintospeech.

SocuriouslywasIaffectedbythisfirstglimpseofCaptainWestthatIwasawareofexpectingtofallfromhislipsIknewnotwhatwordsofuntoldbeneficenceandwisdom.Yet he uttered most commonplace regrets at thedelay in a voice provocative of fresh surprise to me.It was low and gentle,almost too low, yet clear as a bell and touched with a faint reminiscent twangofoldNewEngland.

“Andthisistheyoungwomanwhoisguiltyofthedelay,”heconcludedmyintroductiontohisdaughter.“Margaret,thisisMr.Pathurst.”

Her gloved hand promptly emerged from the fox-skins to meet mine, and Ifound myself looking into a pair of gray eyes bent steadily and gravely uponme. It was discomfiting, that cool, penetrating, searching gaze. It was not thatitwaschallenging,butthatitwassoinsolentlybusiness-like.Itwasmuchin

theverywayonewouldlookatanewcoachmanhewasabouttoengage.Ididnot know then that she was to go on the voyage, and that her curiosity aboutthe man who was to be a fellow-passenger for half a year was therefore onlynatural. Immediately she realized what she was doing, and her lips and eyessmiledasshespoke.

As we moved on to enter the tug’s cabin I heard Possum’s shivering whimperrisingtoascreech,andwentforwardtotellWadatotakethecreatureinoutofthe cold. I found him hovering about my luggage, wedging my dressing-casesecurely upright by means of my little automatic rifle.I was startled by themountain of luggage around which mine was no more than a fringe. Ship’sstores, was my first thought, until I noted the number of trunks, boxes, suit-cases, and parcels and bundles of all sorts.The initials on what lookedsuspiciously like a woman’s hat trunk caught my eye—“M.W.” Yet CaptainWest’s first name was Nathaniel.On closerinvestigationIdidfindseveral“N.W’s.”buteverywhereIcouldsee“M.W’s.”ThenIrememberedthathehadcalledherMargaret.

I was too angry to return to the cabin, and paced up and down the cold deckbiting my lips with vexation. I had so expressly stipulated with the agents thatno captain’s wife was to come along. The last thing under the sun I desired inthe pet quarters of a ship was a woman. But I had never thought about acaptain’s daughter. For two cents I was ready to throw the voyage over andreturnonthetugtoBaltimore.

By the time the wind caused by our speed had chilled me bitterly, I noticedMissWestcomingalongthenarrowdeck,andcouldnotavoidbeingstruckbythe spring and vitality of her walk. Her face, despite its firm moulding, had asuggestion of fragility that was belied by the robustness of her body. At least,one would argue that her body must be robust from her fashion of movementof it, though little could one divine the lines of it under the shapelessness ofthefurs.

I turned away on my heel and fell moodily to contemplating the mountain ofluggage. A huge packing-case attracted my attention, and I was staring at itwhenshespokeatmyshoulder.

“That’swhatreallycausedthedelay,”shesaid.“Whatisit?”Iaskedincuriously.

“Why, the Elsinore’s piano, all renovated. When I made up my mind to come,I telegraphed Mr. Pike—he’s the mate, you know. He did his best. It was thefault of the piano house. And while we waited to-day I gave them a piece ofmymindthey’llnotforgetinahurry.”

She laughed at the recollection, and commenced to peep and peer into theluggageasifinsearchofsomeparticularpiece.Havingsatisfiedherself,she

wasstartingback,whenshepausedandsaid:

“Won’tyoucomeintothecabinwhereit’swarm?Wewon’tbethereforhalfanhour.”

“Whendidyoudecidetomakethisvoyage?”Idemandedabruptly.

So quick was the look she gave me that I knew she had in that moment caughtallmydisgruntlementanddisgust.

“Twodaysago,”sheanswered.“Why?”

Herreadinessforgiveandtaketookmeaback,andbeforeIcouldspeakshewenton:

“Now you’re not to be at all silly about my coming, Mr. Pathurst. I probablyknow more about long-voyaging than you do, and we’re all going to becomfortable and happy. You can’t bother me, and I promise you I won’tbother you. I’ve sailed with passengers before, and I’ve learned to put up withmore than they ever proved they were able to put up with.So there.Let usstart right, and it won’t be any trouble to keep on going right. I know what isthematterwithyou.Youthinkyou’llbecalledupontoentertainme.PleaseknowthatIdonotneedentertainment.Ineversawthelongestvoyagethatwas too long,and Ialways arriveat theend with toomany thingsnot doneforthepassageevertohavebeentedious,and...Idon’tplayChopsticks.”

CHAPTERII

TheElsinore,fresh-loadedwithcoal,layverydeepinthewaterwhenwecame alongside. I knew too little about ships to be capable of admiring herlines, and, besides, I was in no mood for admiration. I was still debating withmyselfwhetherornottochuckthewholethingandreturnonthetug.Fromallof which it must not be taken that I am a vacillating type of man. On thecontrary.

The trouble was that at no time, from the first thought of it, had I been keenfor the voyage. Practically the reason I was taking it was because there wasnothingelseIwaskeenon.Forsometimenowlifehadlostitssavour.Iwasnotjaded,norwasIexactlybored.Butthezesthadgoneoutofthings.Ihadlosttasteformyfellow-menandalltheirfoolish,little,seriousendeavours.

For a far longer period I had been dissatisfied with women. I had enduredthem, but I had been too analytic of the faults of their primitiveness, of theiralmost ferocious devotion to the destiny of sex, to be enchanted with them.And I had come to be oppressed by what seemed to me the futility of art—apompouslegerdemain,aconsummatecharlatanrythatdeceivednotonlyits

devoteesbutitspractitioners.

Inshort,IwasembarkingontheElsinorebecauseitwaseasiertothannot;yeteverything else was as equally and perilously easy. That was the curse of thecondition into which I had fallen. That was why, as I stepped upon the deck oftheElsinore,IwashalfofamindtotellthemtokeepmyluggagewhereitwasandbidCaptainWestandhisdaughtergood-day.

I almost think what decided me was the welcoming, hospitable smile MissWest gave me as she started directly across the deck for the cabin, and theknowledgethatitmustbequitewarminthecabin.

Mr.Pike,themate,Ihadalreadymet,whenIvisitedtheshipinErieBasin.Hesmiled a stiff, crack-faced smile that I knew must be painful, but did not offerto shake hands, turning immediately to call orders to half-a-dozen frozen-looking youths and aged men who shambled up from somewhere in the waistof the ship. Mr. Pike had been drinking. That was patent. His face was puffedanddiscoloured,andhislargegrayeyeswerebitterandbloodshot.

I lingered, with a sinking heart watching my belongings come aboard andchiding my weakness of will which prevented me from uttering the few wordsthat would put a stop to it. As for the half-dozen men who were now carryingtheluggageaftintothecabin,theywereunlikeanyconceptIhadeverentertained of sailors. Certainly, on the liners, I had observed nothing thatresembledthem.

One,amostvivid-facedyouthofeighteen,smiledatmefromapairofremarkable Italian eyes. But he was a dwarf. So short was he that he was allsea-boots and sou’wester. And yet he was not entirely Italian. So certain was IthatIaskedthemate,whoansweredmorosely:

“Him?Shorty?He’sadagohalf-breed.Theotherhalf’sJaporMalay.”

Oneoldman,whoIlearnedwasabosun,wassodecrepitthatIthoughthehadbeen recently injured. His face was stolid and ox-like, and as he shuffled anddragged his brogans over the deck he paused every several steps to place bothhandsonhisabdomenandexecuteaqueer,pressing,liftingmovement.Months were to pass, in which I saw him do this thousands of times, ere Ilearned that there was nothing the matter with him and that his action waspurelyahabit.HisfaceremindedmeoftheManwiththeHoe,savethatitwasunthinkably and abysmally stupider. And his name, as I was to learn, of allnames was Sundry Buyers. And he was bosun of the fine American sailing-shipElsinore—ratedoneofthefinestsailing-shipsafloat!

Of this group of aged men and boys that moved the luggage along I saw onlyone,calledHenry,ayouthofsixteen,whoapproximatedintheslightestwhatIhad conceived all sailors to be like. He had come off a training ship, the matetoldme,andthiswashisfirstvoyagetosea.Hisfacewaskeen-cut,alert,as

were his bodily movements, and he wore sailor-appearing clothes with sailor-seeming grace. In fact, as I was to learn, he was to be the only sailor-seemingcreatureforeandaft.

The main crew had not yet come aboard, but was expected at any moment, themate vouchsafed with a snarl of ominous expectancy. Those already on boardwerethemiscellaneousoneswhohadshippedthemselvesinNewYorkwithout the mediation of boarding-house masters. And what the crew itselfwould be like God alone could tell—so said the mate. Shorty, the Japanese (orMalay)andItalianhalf-caste,thematetoldme,wasanableseaman,thoughhehadcomeoutofsteamandthiswashisfirstsailingvoyage.

“Ordinary seamen!” Mr. Pike snorted, in reply to a question. “We don’t carryLandsmen!—forget it! Every clodhopper an’ cow-walloper these days is anable seaman. That’s the way they rank and are paid. The merchant service isallshottohell.Thereain’tnomoresailors.Theyalldiedyearsago,beforeyouwereborneven.”

I could smell the raw whiskey on the mate’s breath. Yet he did not stagger norshow any signs of intoxication.Not until afterward was I to know that hiswillingnesstotalkwasmostunwontedandwaswheretheliquorgavehimaway.

“It’d a-ben a grace had I died years ago,” he said, “rather than to a-lived to seesailorsan’shipspassawayfromthesea.”

“ButIunderstandtheElsinoreisconsideredoneofthefinest,”Iurged.

“So she is . . . to-day. But what is she?—a damned cargo-carrier. She ain’tbuilt for sailin’, an’ if she was there ain’t no sailors left to sail her. Lord! Lord!The old clippers! When I think of ’em!—The Gamecock, Shootin’ Star, Flyin’Fish, Witch o’ the Wave, Staghound, Harvey Birch,Canvas-back, Fleetwing,Sea Serpent, Northern Light! An’ when I think of the fleets of the tea-clippersthat used to load at Hong Kong an’ race the Eastern Passages. A fine sight! Afinesight!”

I was interested. Here was a man, a live man. I was in no hurry to go into thecabin, where I knew Wada was unpacking my things, so I paced up and downthe deck with the huge Mr. Pike. Huge he was in all conscience, broad-shouldered, heavy-boned, and, despite the profound stoop of his shoulders,fullysixfeetinheight.

“Youareasplendidfigureofaman,”Icomplimented.

“I was, I was,” he muttered sadly, and I caught the whiff of whiskey strong ontheair.

I stole a look at his gnarled hands. Any finger would have made three of mine.Hiswristwouldhavemadethreeofmywrist.

“Howmuchdoyouweigh?”Iasked.

“Twohundredan’ten.Butinmyday,atmybest,Itippedthescalesclosetotwo-forty.”

“And the Elsinore can’t sail,” I said, returning to the subject which had rousedhim.

“I’ll take you even, anything from a pound of tobacco to a month’s wages, shewon’tmakeitaroundinahundredan’ fiftydays,”heanswered.“YetI’vecomeroundintheoldFlyin’Cloudineighty-ninedays—eighty-ninedays,sir,fromSandyHookto’Frisco.Sixtymenfor’ardthatwasmen,an’eightboys,an’drive!drive!drive!Threehundredan’seventy-fourmilesforaday’srunundert’gallantsails,an’inthesquallseighteenknotso’linenotenoughtotimeher.Eighty-ninedays—neverbeat,an’tiedoncebytheoldAndrewJacksonnineyearsafterwards.Themwasthedays!”

“WhendidtheAndrewJacksontieher?”Iasked,becauseofthegrowingsuspicionthathewas“having”me.

“In1860,”washispromptreply.

“And yousailed inthe FlyingCloud nineyears beforethat, andthisis 1913—why,thatwassixty-twoyearsago,”Icharged.

“And I was seven years old,” he chuckled. “My mother was stewardess on theFlyin’Cloud.Iwasbornatsea.IwasboywhenIwastwelve,ontheHeraldo’ theMorn,whenshemadearoundinninety-ninedays—halfthecrewinironsmosto’thetime,fivemenlostfromaloftofftheHorn,thepointsofoursheath-knivesbrokensquareoff,knuckle-dustersan’belayin’-pinsflyin’,threemenshotbytheofficersinoneday,thesecondmatekilleddeadan’noonetoknow who done it, an’ drive! drive!drive!ninety-ninedaysfromlandtoland,arunofseventeenthousandmiles,an’easttowestaroundCapeStiff!”

“Butthatwouldmakeyousixty-nineyearsold,”Iinsisted.

“Which I am,” he retorted proudly, “an’ a better man at that than the scrubbyyounglings of these days. A generation of ’em would die under the things I’vebeen through. Did you ever hear of the Sunny South?—she that was sold inHavanatorunslavesan’changedhernametoEmanuela?”

“Andyou’vesailedtheMiddlePassage!”Icried,recollectingtheoldphrase.

“IwasontheEmanuelathatdayinMozambiqueChannelwhentheBriskcaughtuswithninehundredslaves between-decks.Only she wouldn’t a-caughtusexceptforherhavingsteam.”

Icontinuedtostrollupanddownbesidethismassiverelicofthepast,andtolisten to his hints and muttered reminiscences of old man-killing and man-drivingdays.Hewastoorealtobetrue,andyet,asIstudiedhisshoulder-

stoop and the age-drag of his huge feet, I was convinced that his years were asheasserted.HespokeofaCaptainSonurs.

“He was a great captain,” he was saying. “An’ in the two years I sailed matewith him there was never a port I didn’t jump the ship goin’ in an’ stay inhidinguntilIsneakedaboardwhenshesailedagain.”

“Butwhy?”

“The men, on account of the men swearin’ blood an’ vengeance and warrantsagainst me because of my ways of teachin’ them to be sailors. Why, the times Iwas caught, and the fines the skipper paid for me—and yet it was my workthatmadetheshipmakemoney.”

He held up his huge paws, and as I stared at the battered, malformed knucklesIunderstoodthenatureofhiswork.

“But all that’s stopped now,” he lamented. “A sailor’s a gentleman these days.Youcan’traiseyourvoiceoryourhandtothem.”

At this moment he was addressed from the poop-rail above by the secondmate,amedium-sized,heavilybuilt,clean-shaven,blondman.

“Thetug’sinsightwiththecrew,sir,”heannounced.

The mate grunted an acknowledgment, then added, “Come on down, Mr.Mellaire,andmeetourpassenger.”

I could not help noting the air and carriage with which Mr. Mellaire camedown the poop-ladder and took his part in the introduction. He was courteousin an old-world way, soft-spoken, suave, and unmistakably from south ofMasonandDixon.

“ASoutherner,”Isaid.

“Georgia,sir.”Hebowedandsmiled,asonlyaSouthernercanbowandsmile.

His features and expression were genial and gentle, and yet his mouth was thecruellestgashIhadeverseeninaman’sface.Itwasagash.Thereisnootherway of describing that harsh, thin-lipped, shapeless mouth that utteredgracious things so graciously.Involuntarily I glanced at his hands.Like themate’s, they were thick-boned, broken-knuckled, and malformed. Back intohis blue eyes I looked. On the surface of them was a film of light, a gloss ofgentle kindness and cordiality, but behind that gloss I knew resided neithersinceritynormercy.Behindthatglosswassomethingcoldandterrible,thatlurkedandwaitedandwatched—somethingcatlike,somethinginimicalanddeadly.Behind that gloss of soft light and of social sparkle was the live,fearful thing that had shaped that mouth into the gash it was. What I sensedbehindinthoseeyeschilledmewithitsrepulsivenessandstrangeness.

AsIfacedMr.Mellaire,andtalkedwithhim,andsmiled,andexchanged

amenities, I was aware of the feeling that comes to one in the forest or junglewhen he knows unseen wild eyes of hunting animals are spying upon him.Frankly I was afraid of the thing ambushed behind there in the skull of Mr.Mellaire. One so as a matter of course identifies form and feature with thespirit within. But I could not do this with the second mate. His face and formand manner and suave ease were one thing, inside which he, an entirelydifferentthing,layhid.

InoticedWadastandinginthecabindoor,evidentlywaitingtoaskforinstructions. I nodded, and prepared to follow him inside. Mr. Pike looked atmequicklyandsaid:

“Justamoment,Mr.Pathurst.”

He gave some orders to the second mate, who turned on his heel and startedfor’ard. I stood and waited for Mr. Pike’s communication, which he did notchoose to make until he saw the second mate well out of ear-shot. Then heleanedcloselytomeandsaid:

“Don’t mention that little matter of my age to anybody. Each year I sign on Isignmyageoneyearyounger.Iamfifty-four,now,onthearticles.”

“And you don’t look a day older,” I answered lightly, though I meant it in allsincerity.

“And I don’t feel it.I can outwork and outgame the huskiest of theyounglings.And don’t let my age get to anybody’s ears, Mr. Pathurst.Skippers are not particular for mates getting around the seventy mark.Andownersneither.I’vehadmyhopesforthisship,andI’da-gother,Ithink,exceptfortheoldmandecidin’togotoseaagain.Asifheneededthemoney!Theoldskinflint!”

“Ishewelloff?”Iinquired.

“Well off! If I had a tenth of his money I could retire on a chicken ranch inCaliforniaandlivelikeafightingcock—yes,ifIhadafiftiethofwhathe’sgotsalted away. Why, he owns more stock in all the Blackwood ships . . . andthey’ve always been lucky and always earned money. I’m getting old, and it’sabout time I got a command. But no; the old cuss has to take it into his head togotoseaagainjustastheberth’sripeformetofallinto.”

AgainIstartedtoenterthecabin,butwasstoppedbythemate.“Mr.Pathurst?Youwon’tmentionaboutmyage?”

“No,certainlynot,Mr.Pike,”Isaid.

CHAPTERIII

Quite chilled through, I was immediately struck by the warm comfort of thecabin. All the connecting doors were open, making what I might call a largesuite ofroomsor awhalehouse.The main-deck entrance, on the port side,was into a wide, well-carpeted hallway. Into this hallway, from the port side,opened five rooms: first, on entering, the mate’s; next, the two state-roomswhich had been knocked into one for me; then the steward’s room; and,adjoining his, completing the row, a state-room which was used for the slop-chest.

Across the hall was a region with which I was not yet acquainted, though Iknew it contained the dining-room, the bath-rooms, the cabin proper, whichwas in truth a spacious living-room, the captain’s quarters, and, undoubtedly,Miss West’s quarters. I could hear her humming some air as she bustled aboutwith her unpacking. The steward’s pantry, separated by crosshalls and by thestairwayleadingintothechart-roomaboveonthepoop,wasplacedstrategicallyin the centre of all its operations. Thus,onthestarboardsideofitwerethestate-roomsofthecaptainandMissWest,for’ardofitwerethedining-room and main cabin; while on the port side of it was the row of roomsIhavedescribed,twoofwhichweremine.

Iventureddownthehalltowardthestern,andfounditopenedintothesternoftheElsinore,formingasinglelargeapartmentatleastthirty-fivefeetfromsideto side and fifteen to eighteen feet in depth, curved, of course, to the lines ofthe ship’s stern. This seemed a store-room. I noted wash-tubs, bolts of canvas,many lockers, hams and bacon hanging, a step-ladder that led up through asmallhatchtothepoop,and,inthefloor,anotherhatch.

I spoke to the steward, an old Chinese, smooth-faced and brisk of movement,whosenameIneverlearned,butwhoseageonthearticleswasfifty-six.

“Whatisdownthere?”Iasked,pointingtothehatchinthefloor.“Himlazarette,”heanswered.

“Andwhoeatsthere?”Iindicatedatablewithtwostationarysea-chairs.“Himsecondtable.Secondmateandcarpenterhimeatthattable.”

When I had finished giving instructions to Wada for the arranging of mythings I looked at my watch. It was early yet, only several minutes after threesoIwentondeckagaintowitnessthearrivalofthecrew.

The actual coming on board from the tug I had missed, but for’ard of theamidship house I encountered a few laggards who had not yet gone into theforecastle. These were the worse for liquor, and a more wretched, miserable,disgustinggroupofmenIhadneverseeninanyslum.Theirclotheswererags.Theirfaceswerebloated,bloody,anddirty.Iwon’tsaytheywerevillainous.

Theyweremerelyfilthyandvile.Theywerevileofappearance,ofspeech,andaction.

“Come!Come!Getyourdunnageintothefo’c’s’le!”

Mr. Pike uttered these words sharply from the bridge above.A light and graceful bridge of steel rods and planking ran the full length of the Elsinore,startingfromthepoop,crossingtheamidshiphouseandtheforecastle,andconnectingwiththeforecastle-headattheverybowoftheship.

At the mate’s command the men reeled about and glowered up at him, one ortwo starting clumsily to obey. The others ceased their drunken yammeringsandregardedthematesullenly.Oneofthem,withafacemashedbysomemadgod in the making, and who was afterwards to be known by me as Larry, burstinto a guffaw, and spat insolently on the deck. Then, with utmost deliberation,heturnedtohisfellowsanddemandedloudlyandhuskily:

“Whoinhell’stheoldstiff,anyways?”

I saw Mr. Pike’s huge form tense convulsively and involuntarily, and I notedthe way his huge hands strained in their clutch on the bridge-railing. Beyondthathecontrolledhimself.

“Goon,you,”hesaid.“I’llhavenothingoutofyou.Getintothefo’c’s’le.”

And then, to my surprise, he turned and walked aft along the bridge to wherethe tug was casting off its lines. So this was all his high and mighty talk of killand drive, I thought. Not until afterwards did I recollect, as I turned aft downthe deck, that I saw Captain West leaning on the rail at the break of the poopandgazingfor’ard.

The tug’s lines were being cast off, and I was interested in watching themanoeuvre until she had backed clear of the ship, at which moment, fromfor’ard, arose a queer babel of howling and yelping, as numbers of drunkenvoices cried out that a man was overboard. The second mate sprang down thepoop-ladder and darted past me along the deck. The mate, still on the slender,white-painted bridge, that seemed no more than a spider thread, surprised meby the activity with which he dashed along the bridge to the ’midship house,leaped upon the canvas-covered long-boat, and swung outboard where hemight see. Before the men could clamber upon the rail the second mate wasamongthem,anditwashewhoflungacoiloflineoverboard.

What impressed me particularly was the mental and muscular superiority ofthesetwoofficers.Despitetheirage—thematesixty-nineandthesecondmateat least fifty—their minds and their bodies had acted with the swiftness andaccuracy of steel springs. They were potent. Theywereiron.They wereperceivers, willers, and doers. They were as of another species compared withthesailorsunderthem.Whilethelatter,witnessesofthehappeningand

directly on the spot, had been crying out in befuddled helplessness, and withslow wits and slower bodies been climbing upon the rail, the second mate haddescended the steep ladder from the poop, covered two hundred feet of deck,sprung upon the rail, grasped the instant need of the situation, and cast the coiloflineintothewater.

And of the same nature and quality had been the actions of Mr. Pike. He andMr. Mellaire were masters over the wretched creatures of sailors by virtue ofthisremarkabledifferenceofefficiencyandwill.Truly,theyweremorewidelydifferentiatedfromthemenunderthemthanwerethemenunderthemdifferentiatedfromHottentots—ay,andfrommonkeys.

I, too, by this time, was standing on the big hawser-bitts in a position to see aman in the water who seemed deliberately swimming away from the ship. Hewasadark-skinnedMediterraneanofsomesort,andhisface,inaclearglimpse I caught of it, was distorted by frenzy. His black eyes were maniacal.The line was so accurately flung by the second mate that it fell across theman’s shoulders, and for several strokes his arms tangled in it ere he couldswim clear. This accomplished, he proceeded to scream some wild harangueand once, as he uptossed his arms for emphasis, I saw in his hand the blade ofalongknife.

Bells were jangling on the tug as it started to the rescue. I stole a look up atCaptain West. He had walked to the port side of the poop, where, hands inpockets, he was glancing, now for’ard at the struggling man, now aft at thetug. He gave no orders, betrayed no excitement, and appeared, I may well say,themostcasualofspectators.

The creature in the water seemed now engaged in taking off his clothes. I sawone bare arm, and then the other, appear. In his struggles he sometimes sankbeneaththesurface,butalwaysheemerged,flourishingtheknifeandscreaminghisaddledharangue.Heeventriedtoescapethetugbydivingandswimmingunderneath.

I strolled for’ard, and arrived in time to see him hoisted in over the rail of theElsinore. He was stark naked, covered with blood, and raving. He had cut andslashed himself in a score of places. From one wound in the wrist the bloodspurted with each beat of the pulse. He was a loathsome, non-human thing. Ihave seen a scared orang in a zoo, and for all the world this bestial-faced,mowing, gibbering thing reminded me of the orang. The sailors surroundedhim, laying hands on him, withstraining him, the while they guffawed andcheered. Right and left the two mates shoved them away, and dragged thelunatic down the deck and into a room in the ’midship house. I could not helpmarkingthestrengthofMr.PikeandMr.Mellaire.Ihadheardofthesuperhuman strength of madmen, but this particular madman was as a wisp ofstrawintheirhands.Onceintothebunk,Mr.Pikehelddownthestruggling

fool easily with one hand while he dispatched the second mate for marlin withwhichtotiethefellow’sarms.

“Bughouse,” Mr. Pike grinned at me. “I’ve seen some bughouse crews in mytime,butthisone’sthelimit.”

“Whatareyougoingtodo?”Iasked.“Themanwillbleedtodeath.”

“And good riddance,” he answered promptly. “We’ll have our hands full ofhimuntilwecanlosehimsomehow.WhenhegetseasyI’llsewhimup,that’sall,ifIhavetoeasehimwithacloutofthejaw.”

I glanced at the mate’s huge paw and appreciated its anæsthetic qualities. Outon deck again, I saw Captain West on the poop, hands still in pockets, quiteuninterested, gazing at a blue break in the sky to the north-east. More than themates and the maniac, more than the drunken callousness of the men, did thisquiet figure, hands in pockets, impress upon me that I was in a different worldfromanyIhadknown.

Wada broke in upon my thoughts by telling me he had been sent to say thatMissWestwasservingteainthecabin.

CHAPTERIV

The contrast, as I entered the cabin, was startling. All contrasts aboard theElsinore promised to be startling. Instead of the cold, hard deck my feet sankinto soft carpet. In place of the mean and narrow room, built of naked iron,where I had left the lunatic, I was in a spacious and beautiful apartment. Withthe bawling of the men’s voices still in my ears, and with the pictures of theirdrink-puffed and filthy faces still vivid under my eyelids, I found myselfgreetedbyadelicate-faced,prettily-gownedwomanwhosatbesidealacquered oriental table on which rested an exquisite tea-service of Cantonchina.Allwasreposeandcalm.Thesteward,noiseless-footed,expressionless,wasashadow,scarcelynoticed,thatdriftedintotheroomonsomeserviceanddriftedoutagain.

NotatoncecouldIrelax,andMissWest,servingmytea,laughedandsaid:

“You look as if you had been seeing things. The steward tells me a man hasbeenoverboard.Ifancythecoldwatermusthavesoberedhim.”

Iresentedherunconcern.

“The man is a lunatic,” I said. “This ship is no place for him. He should besentashoretosomehospital.”

“Iamafraid,ifwebeginthat,we’dhavetosendtwo-thirdsofourcomplement

ashore—onelump?

“Yes, please,” I answered. “But the man has terribly wounded himself. He isliabletobleedtodeath.”

She looked at me for a moment, her gray eyes serious and scrutinizing, as shepassed me my cup; then laughter welled up in her eyes, and she shook herheadreprovingly.

“Now please don’t begin the voyage by being shocked, Mr. Pathurst.Suchthings are very ordinary occurrences.You’ll get used to them.You mustremember some queer creatures go down to the sea in ships. The man is safe.TrustMr.Piketoattendtohiswounds.I’veneversailedwithMr.Pike,butI’veheardenoughabouthim.Mr.Pikeisquiteasurgeon.Lastvoyage,theysay,heperformedasuccessfulamputation,andsoelatedwashethatheturnedhis attention on the carpenter, who happened to be suffering from some sort ofindigestion. Mr. Pike was so convinced of the correctness of his diagnosis thathetriedtobribethecarpenterintohavinghisappendixremoved.”Shebrokeofftolaughheartily,thenadded:“Theysayheofferedthepoormanjustpoundsandpoundsoftobaccotoconsenttotheoperation.”

“Butisitsafe...forthe...theworkingoftheship,”Iurged,“totakesuchalunaticalong?”

Sheshruggedhershoulders,asifnotintendingtoreply,thensaid:

“This incident is nothing. There are always several lunatics or idiots in everyship’scompany.Andtheyalwayscomeaboardfilledwithwhiskeyandraving.I remember, once, when we sailed from Seattle, a long time ago, one suchmadman. Heshowednosignsofmadnessatall;justcalmlyseizedtwoboarding-house runners and sprang overboard with them. We sailed the sameday,beforethebodieswererecovered.”

Againsheshruggedhershoulders.

“What would you? The sea is hard, Mr. Pathurst. And for our sailors we getthe worst type of men. I sometimes wonder where they find them. And we doour best with them, and somehow manage to make them help us carry on ourworkintheworld.Buttheyarelow...low.”

AsIlistened,andstudiedherface,contrastingherwoman’ssensitivityandhersoft pretty dress with the brute faces and rags of the men I had noticed, I couldnothelpbeingconvincedintellectuallyoftherightnessofherposition.Nevertheless, I was hurt sentimentally,—chiefly, I do believe, because of thevery hardness and unconcern with which she enunciated her view. It wasbecause she was a woman, and so different from the sea-creatures, that Iresentedherhavingreceivedsuchharsheducationintheschoolofthesea.

“Icouldnothelpremarkingyourfather’s—er,ersangfroidduringthe

occurrence.”Iventured.

“Henevertookhishandsfromhispockets!”shecried.HereyessparkledasInoddedconfirmation.

“I knew it! It’s his way. I’ve seen it so often. I remember when I was twelveyears old—mother was alone—we were running into San Francisco. It was inthe Dixie, a ship almost as big as this. There was a strong fair wind blowing,and father did not take a tug. We sailed right through the Golden Gate and upthe San Francisco water-front. There was a swift flood tide, too; and the men,bothwatches,weretakinginsailasfastastheycould.

“Now the fault was the steamboat captain’s. He miscalculated our speed andtried to cross our bow. Then came the collision, and the Dixie’s bow cutthrough that steamboat, cabin and hull. There were hundreds of passengers,men, women, and children. Father never took his hands from his pockets. Hesentthematefor’ardtosuperintendrescuingthepassengers,whowerealreadyclimbing on to our bowsprit and forecastle-head, and in a voice no differentfrom what he’d use to ask some one to pass the butter he told the second matetosetallsail.Andhetoldhimwhichsailstobeginwith.”

“Butwhysetmoresails?”Iinterrupted.

“Because he could see the situation. Don’t you see, the steamboat was cutwide open. All that kept her from sinking instantly was the bow of theDixiejammed into her side. By setting more sail and keeping before the wind, hecontinuedtokeepthebowoftheDixiejammed.

“I was terribly frightened. People who had sprung or fallen overboard weredrowning on each side of us, right in my sight, as we sailed along up thewater-front. But when I looked at father, there he was, just as I had alwaysknown him, hands in pockets, walking slowly up and down, now giving anordertothewheel—yousee,hehadtodirecttheDixie’scoursethroughalltheshipping—nowwatchingthepassengersswarmingoverourbowandalongour deck, now looking ahead to see his way through the ships at anchor.Sometimeshedidglanceatthepoor,drowningones,buthewasnotconcernedwiththem.

“Of course, there were numbers drowned, but by keeping his hands in hispockets and his head cool he saved hundreds of lives. Not until the last personwas off the steamboat—he sent men aboard to make sure—did he take off thepressofsail.Andthesteamboatsankatonce.”

Sheceased,andlookedatmewithshiningeyesforapprobation.

“Itwassplendid,”Iacknowledged.“Iadmirethequietmanofpower,thoughIconfess that such quietness under stress seems to me almost unearthly andbeyondhuman.Ican’tconceiveofmyselfactingthatway,andIamconfident

thatIwassufferingmorewhilethatpoordevilwasinthewaterthanalltherestoftheonlookersputtogether.”

“Fathersuffers!”shedefendedloyally.“Onlyhedoesnotshowit.”Ibowed,forIfeltshehadmissedmypoint.

CHAPTERV

I came out from tea in the cabin to find the tug Britannia in sight. She was thecraft that was to tow us down Chesapeake Bay to sea. Strolling for’ard I notedthe sailors being routed out of the forecastle by Sundry Buyers, for evertenderly pressing his abdomen with his hands. Another man was helpingSundryBuyersatroutingoutthesailors.IaskedMr.Pikewhothemanwas.

“Nancy—my bosun; ain’t he a peach?” was the answer I got, and from themate’s manner of enunciation I was quite aware that “Nancy” had been usedderisively.

Nancy could not have been more than thirty, though he looked as if he hadlived a very long time. He was toothless and sad and weary of movement.Hiseyeswereslate-colouredandmuddy,hisshavenfacewassicklyyellow.Narrow-shouldered, sunken-chested, with cheeks cavernously hollow, helooked like a man in the last stages of consumption.Little life as SundryBuyersshowed,Nancyshowedevenlesslife.Andthesewerebosuns!—

bosunsofthefineAmericansailing-shipElsinore!Neverhadanyillusionofminetakenamoredistressingcropper.

Itwasplaintomethatthepairofthem,spinelessandspunkless,wereafraidofthe men they were supposed to boss. And the men! Doré could never haveconjured a more delectable hell’s broth. For the first time I saw them all, and Icould not blame the two bosuns for being afraid of them. They did not walk.Theyslouchedandshambled,someeventottered,asfromweaknessordrink.

But it was their faces. I could not help remembering what Miss West had justtold me—that ships always sailed with several lunatics or idiots in their crews.But these looked as if they were all lunatic or feeble-minded. And I, too,wondered where such a mass of human wreckage could have been obtained.There was something wrong with all of them. Their bodies were twisted, theirfaces distorted, and almost without exception they were under-sized. TheseveralquitefairlylargemenImarkedwerevacant-faced.Oneman,however,large and unmistakably Irish, was also unmistakably mad. He was talking andmuttering to himself as he came out. A little, curved, lop-sided man, with hishead on one side and with the shrewdest and wickedest of faces and pale blueeyes,addressedanobsceneremarktothemadIrishman,callinghim

O’Sullivan. But O’Sullivan took no notice and muttered on. On the heels ofthelittlelop-sidedmanappearedanovergrowndoltofafatyouth,followedbyanother youth so tall and emaciated of body that it seemed a marvel his fleshcouldholdhisframetogether.

Next,afterthisperambulatingskeleton,cametheweirdestcreatureIhaveeverbeheld.He was a twisted oaf of a man.Face and body were twisted as withthe pain of a thousand years of torture. His was the face of an ill-treated andfeeble-minded faun. His large black eyes were bright, eager, and filled withpain;andtheyflashedquestioninglyfromfacetofaceandtoeverythingabout.They were so pitifully alert, those eyes, as if for ever astrain to catch the clueto some perplexing and threatening enigma.Not until afterwards did I learnthe cause of this.He was stone deaf, having hadhisear-drumsdestroyedintheboilerexplosionwhichhadwreckedtherestofhim.

I noticed the steward, standing at the galley door and watching the men from adistance. His keen, Asiatic face, quick with intelligence, was a relief to theeye,aswasthevividfaceofShorty,whocameoutoftheforecastlewithaleapand a gurgle of laughter. But there was something wrong with him, too. Hewas a dwarf, and, as I was to come to know, his high spirits and low mentalityunitedtomakehimaclown.

Mr. Pike stopped beside me a moment and while he watched the men Iwatched him. The expression on his face was that of a cattle-buyer, and it wasplainthathewasdisgustedwiththequalityofcattledelivered.

“Somethingthematterwiththelastmother’ssonofthem,”hegrowled.

And still they came: one, pallid, furtive-eyed, that I instantly adjudged a drugfiend;another,atiny,wizenedoldman,pinch-facedandwrinkled,withbeady,malevolent blue eyes; a third, a small, well-fleshed man, who seemed to myeye the most normal and least unintelligent specimen that had yet appeared.ButMr.Pike’seyewasbettertrainedthanmine.

“What’s the matter with you?” he snarled at the man.“Nothing,sir,”thefellowanswered,stoppingimmediately.“What’syourname?”

Mr.Pikeneverspoketoasailorsavewithasnarl.“CharlesDavis,sir.”

“Whatareyoulimpingabout?”

“I ain’t limpin’, sir,” the man answered respectfully, and, at a nod of dismissalfrom the mate, marched off jauntily along the deck with a heodlum swing totheshoulders.

“He’sasailorallright,”themategrumbled;“butI’llbetyouapoundof

tobaccooramonth’swagesthere’ssomethingwrongwithhim.”

The forecastle now seemed empty, but the mate turned on the bosuns with hiscustomarysnarl.

“What in hell are you doing? Sleeping? Think this is a rest cure? Get in therean’rustle’emout!”

Sundry Buyers pressed his abdomen gingerly and hesitated, while Nancy, hisface one dogged, long-suffering bleakness, reluctantly entered the forecastle.Then, from inside, we heard oaths, vile and filthy, urgings and expostulationsonthepartofNancy,meeklyandpleadinglyuttered.

I noted the grim and savage look that came on Mr. Pike’s face, and waspreparedforIknewnotwhatawfulmonstrositiestoemergefromtheforecastle. Instead, to my surprise, came three fellows who were strikinglysuperior to the ruck that had preceded them. I looked to see the mate’s facesoften to some sort of approval. On the contrary, his blue eyes contracted tonarrow slits, the snarl of his voice was communicated to his lips, so that heseemedlikeadogabouttobite.

But the three fellows. They were small men, all; and young men, anywherebetweentwenty-fiveandthirty.Thoughroughlydressed,theywerewelldressed,andundertheirclothestheirbodilymovementsshowedphysicalwell-being. Their faces were keen cut, intelligent. And though I felt there wassomethingqueeraboutthem,Icouldnotdivinewhatitwas.

Here were no ill-fed, whiskey-poisoned men, such as the rest of the sailors,who, having drunk up their last pay-days, had starved ashore until they hadreceived and drunk up their advance money for the present voyage. Thesethree, on the other hand were supple and vigorous. Their movements werespontaneously quick and accurate. Perhaps it was the way they looked at me,with incurious yet calculating eyes that nothing escaped. They seemed soworldly wise, so indifferent, so sure of themselves. I was confident they werenot sailors. Yet, as shore-dwellers, I could not place them. They were a type Ihad never encountered. Possibly I can give a better idea of them by describingwhatoccurred.

As they passed before us they favoured Mr. Pike with the same indifferent,keenglancestheygaveme.

“What’s your name—you?” Mr. Pike barked at the first of the trio, evidently ahybrid Irish-Jew. Jewish his nose unmistakably was. Equally unmistakablewastheIrishofhiseyes,andjaw,andupperlip.

The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look directly atone another, they seemed to be holding a silent conference. Another of thetrio,inwhoseveinsranGodaloneknowswhatSemitic,BabylonishandLatin

strains, gave a warning signal.Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod.IalmostdoubtedthatIhadinterceptedit,andyetIknewhehadcommunicateda warning to his fellows.More a shade of expression that had crossed hiseyes, or a glint in them of sudden light—or whatever it was, it carried themessage.

“Murphy,”theotheransweredthemate.“Sir!”Mr.Pikesnarledathim.

Murphyshruggedhisshouldersintokenthathedidnotunderstand.It wasthepoiseoftheman,ofthethreeofthem,thecoolpoisethatimpressedme.

“Whenyouaddressanyofficeronthisshipyou’llsay‘sir,’”Mr.Pikeexplained,hisvoiceasharshashisfacewasforbidding.“Didyougetthat?”

“Yes...sir,”Murphydrawledwithdeliberateslowness.“Igotcha.”“Sir!”Mr.Pikeroared.

“Sir,” Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated the mate tofurtherbullyragging.

“Well, Murphy’s too long,” he announced. “Nosey’ll do you aboard this craft.Gotthat?”

“I gotcha . . . sir,” came the reply, insolent in its very softness and unconcern.“NoseyMurphygoes...sir.”

And then he laughed—the three of them laughed, if laughter it might be calledthat was laughter without sound or facial movement. The eyes alone laughed,mirthlesslyandcold-bloodedly.

Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling personalities.Heturnedupontheleader,theonewhohadgiventhewarningandwholookedtheadmixtureofallthatwasMediterraneanandSemitic.

“What’syourname?”

“Bert Rhine . . . sir,” was the reply, in tones as soft and careless and silkilyirritatingastheother’s.

“And you?”—this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a dark-eyed,olive-skinnedfellowwithafacemoststrikinginitscameo-likebeauty.American-born,Iplacedhim,ofimmigrantsfromSouthernItaly—fromNaples,orevenSicily.

“Twist...sir,”heanswered,preciselyinthesamemannerastheothers.“Toolong,”thematesneered.“TheKid’lldoyou.Gotthat?”

“Igotcha...sir.KidTwist’lldome...sir.”“Kid’lldo!”

“Kid...sir.”

And the three laughed their silent, mirthless laugh. By this time Mr. Pike wasbesidehimselfwitharagethatcouldfindnoexcuseforaction.

“Now I’m going to tell you something, the bunch of you, for the good of yourhealth.” The mate’s voice grated with the rage he was suppressing. “I knowyour kind. You’re dirt. D’ye get that? You’re dirt. And on this ship you’ll betreatedasdirt.You’lldoyourworklikemen,orI’llknowthereasonwhy.Thefirst time one of you bats an eye, or even looks like batting an eye, he gets his.D’yegetthat?Nowgetout.Getalongfor’ardtothewindlass.”

Mr.Piketurnedonhisheel,andIswungalongsideofhimashemovedaft.“Whatdoyoumakeofthem?”Iqueried.

“The limit,” he grunted. “I know their kidney. They’ve done time, the three ofthem.They’rejustplainsweepingsofhell—”

Here his speech was broken off by the spectacle that greeted him on NumberTwo hatch. Sprawled out on the hatch were five or six men, among themLarry,thetatterdemalionwhohadcalledhim“oldstiff”earlierintheafternoon. That Larry had not obeyed orders was patent, for he was sittingwith his back propped against his sea-bag, which ought to have been in theforecastle. Also,heandthegroupwithhimoughttohavebeenfor’ardmanningthewindlass.

Thematesteppeduponthehatchandtoweredovertheman.“Getup,”heordered.

Larrymadeaneffort,groaned,andfailedtogetup.“Ican’t,”hesaid.

“Sir!”

“Ican’t,sir.Iwasdrunklastnightan’sleptinJeffersonMarket.An’thismornin’Iwasfrozetight,sir.Theyhadtoprymeloose.”

“Stiffwiththecoldyouwere,eh?”themategrinned.“It’s wellyemightsayit,sir,”Larryanswered.“Andyoufeellikeanoldstiff,eh?”

Larryblinkedwiththetroubled,querulouseyesofamonkey.Hewasbeginning to apprehend he knew not what, and he knew that bending over himwasaman-master.

“Well, I’ll just be showin’ you what an old stiff feels like, anyways.” Mr. Pikemimickedtheother’sbrogue.

AndnowIshalltellwhatIsawhappen.PleaserememberwhatIhavesaidof

the huge paws of Mr. Pike, the fingers much longer than mine and twice asthick, the wrists massive-boned, the arm-bones and the shoulder-bones of the