for’ard end of the poop. His voice shook as he spoke.
“For the love of God, sir, they’ve come,” he said.
“Who?” I asked sharply.
“Them,” he chattered. “The ones that come aboard off the Horn, sir, the three drownded sailors. They’re there, aft, sir, the three of ’em, standin’ in a row by the wheel.”
“How did they get there?”
“Bein’ warlocks, they flew, sir. You didn’t see ’m go by you, did you, sir?”
“No,” I admitted. “They never went by me.”
Poor Tom Spink groaned.
“But there are lines aloft there on which they could cross over from mizzen to jigger,” I added. “Send Wada to me.”
When the latter relieved me I went aft. And there in a row were our three pale-haired storm-waifs with the topaz eyes. In the light of a bull’s-eye, held on them by Louis, their eyes never seemed more like the eyes of great cats. And, heavens, they purred! At least, the inarticulate noises they made sounded more like purring than anything else. That these sounds meant friendliness was very evident. Also, they held out their hands, palms upward, in unmistakable sign of peace. Each in turn doffed his cap and placed my hand for a moment on his head. Without doubt this meant their offer of fealty, their acceptance of me as master.
I nodded my head. There was nothing to be said to men who purred like cats, while sign-language in the light of the bull’s-eye was rather difficult. Tom Spink groaned protest when I told Louis to take them below and give them blankets.
I made the sleep-sign to them, and they nodded gratefully, hesitated, then pointed to their mouths and rubbed their stomachs.
“Drowned men do not eat,” I laughed to Tom Spink. “Go down and watch them. Feed them up, Louis, all they want. It’s a good sign of short rations for’ard.”
At the end of half an hour Tom Spink was back.
“Well, did they eat?” I challenged him.
But he was unconvinced. The very quantity they had eaten was a suspicious thing, and, further, he had heard of a kind of ghost that devoured dead bodies in graveyards. Therefore, he concluded, mere non-eating was no test for a ghost.
The third event of moment occurred this morning at seven o’clock. The mutineers called for a truce; and when Nosey Murphy, the Maltese Cockney, and the inevitable Charles Davis stood beneath me on the main deck, their faces showed lean and drawn. Famine had been my great ally. And in truth, with Margaret beside me in that high place of the break of the poop, as I looked down on the hungry wretches I felt very strong. Never had the inequality of numbers fore and aft been less than now. The three deserters, added to our own nine, made twelve of us, while the mutineers, after subtracting Ditman Olansen, Bob and the Faun, totalled only an even score. And of these Bert Rhine must certainly be in a bad way, while there were many weaklings, such as Sundry Buyers, Nancy, Larry, and Lars Jacobsen.
“Well, what do you want?” I demanded. “I haven’t much time to waste. Breakfast is ready and waiting.”
Charles Davis started to speak, but I shut him off.
“I’ll have nothing out of you, Davis. At least not now. Later on, when I’m in that court of law you’ve bothered me with for half the voyage, you’ll get your turn at talking. And when that time comes don’t forget that I shall have a few words to say.”
Again he began, but this time was stopped by Nosey Murphy.
“Aw, shut your trap, Davis ,” the gangster snarled, “or I’ll shut it for you.” He glanced up to me. “We want to go back to work, that’s what we want.”
“Which is not the way to ask for it,” I answered.
“Sir,” he added hastily.
“That’s better,” I commented.
“Oh, my God, sir, don’t let ’m come aft.” Tom Spink muttered hurriedly in my ear. “That’d be the end of all of us. And even if they didn’t get you an’ the rest, they’d heave me over some dark night. They ain’t never goin’ to forgive me, sir, for joinin’ in with the afterguard.”
I ignored the interruption and addressed the gangster.
“There’s nothing like going to work when you want to as badly as you seem to. Suppose all hands get sail on her just to show good intention.”
“We’d like to eat first, sir,” he objected.
“I’d like to see you setting sail, first,” was my reply. “And you may as well get it from me straight that what I like goes, aboard this ship.”—I almost said “hooker.”
Nosey Murphy hesitated and looked to the Maltese Cockney for counsel. The latter debated, as if gauging the measure of his weakness while he stared aloft at the work involved. Finally he nodded.
“All right, sir,” the gangster spoke up. “We’ll do it . . . but can’t something be cookin’ in the galley while we’re doin’ it?”
I shook my head.
“I didn’t have that in mind, and I don’t care to change my mind now. When every sail is stretched and every yard braced, and all that mess of gear cleared up, food for a good meal will be served out. You needn’t bother about the spanker nor the mizzen-braces. We’ll make your work lighter by that much.”
In truth, as they climbed aloft they showed how miserably weak they were. There were some too feeble to go aloft. Poor Sundry Buyers continually pressed his abdomen as he toiled around the deck-capstans; and never was Nancy’s face quite so forlorn as when he obeyed the Maltese Cockney’s command and went up to loose the mizzen-skysail.
In passing, I must note one delicious miracle that was worked before our eyes. They were hoisting the mizzen-upper-topsail-yard by means of one of the patent deck-capstans. Although they had reversed the gear so as to double the purchase, they were having a hard time of it. Lars Jacobsen was limping on his twice-broken leg, and with him were Sundry Buyers, Tony the Greek, Bombini, and Mulligan Jacobs. Nosey Murphy held the turn.
When they stopped from sheer exhaustion Murphy’s glance chanced to fall on Charles Davis, the one man who had not worked since the outset of the voyage and who was not working now.
“Bear a hand, Davis ,” the gangster called.
Margaret gurgled low laughter in my ear as she caught the drift of the episode.
The sea-lawyer looked at the other in amazement ere he answered:
“I guess not.”
After nodding Sundry Buyers over to him to take the turn Murphy straightened his back and walked close to Davis , then said very quietly:
“I guess yes.”
That was all. For a space neither spoke. Davis seemed to be giving the matter judicial consideration. The men at the capstan panted, rested, and looked on—all save Bombini, who slunk across the deck until he stood at Murphy’s shoulder.
Under such circumstances the decision Charles Davis gave was eminently the right one, although even then he offered a compromise.
“I’ll hold the turn,” he volunteered.
“You’ll lump around one of them capstan-bars,” Murphy said.
The sea-lawyer made no mistake. He knew in all absoluteness that he was choosing between life and death, and he limped over to the capstan and found his place. And as the work started, and as he toiled around and around the narrow circle, Margaret and I shamelessly and loudly laughed our approval. And our own men stole for’ard along the poop to peer down at the spectacle of Charles Davis at work.
All of which must have pleased Nosey Murphy, for, as he continued to hold the turn and coil down, he kept a critical eye on Davis .
“More juice, Davis !” he commanded with abrupt sharpness.
And Davis , with a startle, visibly increased his efforts.
This was too much for our fellows, who, Asiatics and all, applauded with laughter and hand-clapping. And
