Up to now my standing with the men had been well enough.  Now they drew frankly apart.  One of the most significant indications of this was the increased respect they paid my office.  It was as though by prompt obedience, instant deference, and the emphasising of ship’s etiquette they intended to draw sharply the line between themselves and me.  There was much whispering apart, many private talks and consultations in which I had no part.  Ordinarily they talked freely enough before me.  Even the reading during the dog watch was intermitted—­at least it was on such days as I happened to be in the watch below.  But twice I caught the Nigger and Handy Solomon consulting together over the volume on alchemy.

I was in two minds whether to report the whole matter to Captain Selover.  The only thing that restrained me was the vagueness of the intention, and the fact that the afterguard was armed, and was four to the crew’s five.  An incident, however, decided me.  One evening I was awakened by a sound of violent voices.  Captain Selover occasionally juggled the watches for variety’s sake, and I now had Handy Solomon and Perdosa.  The Nigger, being cook, stood no watch.

“You drunken Greaser swab!” snarled Handy Solomon.  “You misbegotten son of a Yaqui!  I’ll learn you to step on a seaman’s foot, and you can kiss the book on that!  I’ll cut your heart out and feed it to the sharks!”

“Potha!” sneered Perdosa.  “You cut heem you finger wid your knife.”

They wrangled.  At first I thought the quarrel genuine, but after a moment or so I could not avoid a sort of reminiscent impression of the cheap melodrama.  It seemed incredible, but soon I could not dodge the conclusion that it was a made-up quarrel designed to impress me.

Why should they desire to do so?  I had to give it up, but the fact itself was obvious enough.  I laughed to see them.  The affair did not come to blows, but it did come to black looks on meeting, muttered oaths, growls of enmity every time they happened to pass each other on the deck.  Perdosa was not so bad; his Mexican blood inclined him to the histrionic, and his Mexican cast lent itself well to evil looks.  But Handy Solomon, for the first time in my acquaintance with him, was ridiculous.

About this time we crossed into frequent thunders.  One evening just at dark we made out a heavy black squall.  Not knowing exactly what weight lay behind it, I called up all hands.  We ducked the staysail and foresail, lowered the peak of the mainsail, and waited to feel of it—­a rough and ready seamanship often used in these little California windjammers.  I was pretty busy, but I heard distinctly Handy Solomon’s voice behind me.

“I’ll kill you sure, you Greaser, as soon as my hands are free!”

And some muttered reply from the Mexican.

The wind hit us hard, held on a few moments, and moderated to a stiff puff.  There followed the rain, so of course I knew it would amount to nothing.  I was just stooping to throw the stops off the staysail when I felt myself seized from behind, and forced rapidly toward the side of the ship.