“Him?  Oh, Jose an’ me carried him inter the for’cassel, an’ shoved him inter a berth ter sleep off his liquor.  Thet wus the last I ever see, er hear o’ him fer ’bout six hours.  I’d fergot all ’bout the feller—­er wud have, if it hadn’t been fer the rum.  Manuel went off in the long-boat with Estada, an’ when my watch went below, I stowed myself away back o’ the bow gun fer a few drinks.  I hadn’t been thar mor’n ten minutes, when this yere feller must a woke up in the for’cassel sum crazy.  He cum a chargin’ out on deck, whoopin’ like an Indian, wavin’ a knife in his hand, intendin’ fer ter raise hell.  I cudn’t see then who the lad wus, but it must o’ been him, fer when I went down later he wusn’t whar we’d put him.  Well, it happened thet the fu’st feller he run up against wus LeVere, who wus cumin’ forrard fer sumthin’, an’ fer about a minute thar was one hell ov a fight.  Maybe LeVere didn’t know et onct just whut hed happened, but he wusn’t almighty long finding out his job, an’ the way he started in fer ter man-handle the cuss, wus worth seein’.  It was so damn dark thar by the foremast I couldn’t tell whut did happen, but it wus fists mostly, till the mate drove the poor devil, cussin’ like mad, over agin the rail, an’ then heaved him out inter the water ’longside.  I heerd the feller splash when he struck, but he never let out no yell.”

“What did LeVere do?”

“Him?  Hell, he didn’t do nuthin’.  Just stared down over the rail a bit, an’ then cum back, rubbin’ his hands.  Never even asked who the feller wus.  Thar ain’t nuthin’ kin skeer that black brute.”

“By God—­no!  He ain’t got no human in him.  It’s hell when English sailormen has got ter take orders frum a damned nigger, an’ be knocked ‘round if they don’t jump when he barks.  He’s goin’ ter get a knife in his ribs sum day.”

“Maybe he is; but yer better hold yer tongue, Tom.  Sanchez don’t stand fer thet talk, an’ he’s back o’ LeVere.  Let’s go in; them gaskets will hold all right now—­cum ’long.”

The two vaguely distinguishable figures disappeared, clambering awkwardly over the rail, and as instantly vanishing into the blackness of the bark’s deck.  An unsecured bit of canvas continued to flap noisily above me, and the constant surge of water pounded against the bow, but I could perceive now clearly the character I was destined to assume when once safely aboard the Namur.  Such an assumption would involve but slight danger of discovery.  It was as though a miracle had opened the way, revealed to me by the unconscious lips of these two half-drunken, gossiping sailors.  The story told fitted my necessities exactly.  Had I planned the circumstances myself, nothing could have been better prearranged.  No one on board had seen the missing man by daylight; if an impression of his features remained in any individual mind, it must be extremely vague, and valueless.  Bill’s conviction that the man was English, and probably a sailor, was the most definite, and