He opened his big eyes and stared at me stupidly, while the occupants of the other bunks, who were aroused by my shout, sat up and rubbed their eyes.

“Why did you throw that knife?” I screamed.

“I no throw knife,” he muttered.  “Me sleep, very tired.”

The pain of my wound maddened me, and I seized him roughly and dragged him toward the ladder with the intention of bringing him before the bilious captain.

I had grasped a rung to haul myself up when a heavy boot came down on my fingers and the voice of the captain screamed an objection.

“Stop that business!” he shrieked.

“But this devil tried to knife me!” I protested.

“Let him go!” yelled Newmarch.  “Do you hear me?  Let him go this instant!”

I let go my grip of the Kanaka, who immediately dived for his bunk and curled himself up as if he had no further interest in the proceedings.  The captain was beside me then, and his quick breathing betrayed his excitement.  As I lifted the lamp back to its place the light fell upon his thin features; their pallor surprised me as much as his words.

“Too many wonderful things happen to you!” he stammered.

“Why—­what do you mean?” I queried.

“Never mind!” he snapped.  “If you start a rough house on board this boat I’ll stop you before you get well under way.”

I was too astounded to reply.  The blood upon my face and hands was plain evidence of the wound I had received, and the captain’s indifference left me breathless.  Without another word he turned and scrambled up on deck, and I followed.

Once out of earshot of the listening crew I determined to make another effort to show him that my conduct was justified.

“That devil was sneaking in the shadow of the galley all the evening,” I cried.  “I attempted to stir him out and he jerked the knife at me.”

He stopped in front of me, made one of his conversational feints by opening his mouth and shutting it again, then dived hastily for the companion, leaving me to search for sympathy in the moonlit night.  I remembered as I endeavoured to staunch the wound, the question which I had put to Holman concerning the captain only an hour before, and I smiled grimly as I bound my handkerchief about my forehead.  Captain Newmarch of The Waif hadn’t risen in my estimation since the moment I made the inquiry.

[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV

THE STORM

Holman glanced inquiringly at the piece of sticking plaster above my right eye when he met me on the deck the morning after the knife incident, and I grinned sheepishly.

“You were right about that patch of shadow last night,” I remarked.

“How?” he queried.

“This came from it,” I replied, touching the plaster with my finger as I spoke.

The boy whistled and looked around cautiously.  “You’ll be getting wise in a day or two,” he murmured.  “She said you would when I told her this morning about our conversation of last night.”