he had had greater opportunity closely to observe the stranger than anyone else.  LeVere had obtained no more than a glimpse of his opponent, during their struggle in the dark, and while fighting for his life.  Surely it would be easy enough to obscure any faint impression thus acquired.  And the fellow had been heartlessly flung overboard; was believed to have sunk without a struggle, too drunk to save himself; was scarcely given another thought.  Yet no one knew positively that this was so, because no one cared.  The death of the lad had simply been taken for granted, when LeVere failed to see his body rise again to the surface.  Yet it was quite within the realm of possibility for the fellow to come up once more in that darkness, beyond LeVere’s range of vision, and even to have remained afloat, buoyed up by clinging to the anchor hawser, until strong enough to return on board.  At least there was no one aboard the Namur able to deny that this had been done.

Satisfied by this reasoning of being able to pass myself off as the dead man, with small danger of detection, and likewise assured—­so far at least as eyes and ears testified—­that none of the crew were grouped on the forecastle, to be attracted by my movements, I began, slowly and cautiously, to drag myself up the taut hawser, hoping thus to attain a position from which to gain hand-hold on the rail, and thus attain the deck unseen.  While my explanation might suffice, I greatly preferred having to present it only as a last resort.  I would much rather slip quietly aboard, and mingle unnoticed with the crew for the next few hours, than be haled at once before LeVere, and endure his scrutiny and possible violence.  The fellow was evidently a brute, and a hard master.  Seemingly I had chosen a fortunate moment for my effort; no one heeded the little noise I made, and, when I finally topped the rail, and was able to look inboard, it was to discover a deserted fore deck, with the watch all engaged at some task amidships.  There was no gleam of light, but I could hear the patter of feet, and imagined seeing dim moving figures.  A rather high-pitched voice was giving orders, and enough of his words reached me to convince that other men were aloft on the main yard.  Believing my best policy would be to join those busied on deck, just as though I belonged among them, I crept down the forecastle ladder, and worked my way aft beneath the black shadow of the port rail, until able thus to drift unnoticed into a group tailing on to a mainsail halliard.  The fellow next to me, without releasing his grip, turned his head and stared, but without discerning my features.

“Whar the hell did yer cum’ frum?” he growled, and I as instantly recognized Bill Haines.  “Been sojerin’, have yer?  Well, now, damn yer eyes! lay too an’ pull.”

Before I could attempt an answer, a tall figure loomed up before us, the same high-pitched voice I had noticed previously calling out sharply: