“You say dat, eh?  Vaire good.  But you are one big t’ief—­”

“I ’m not—­don’t you dare call me that again!” Joe’s face was pale, and he was trembling—­but not with fear.

“T’ief!” the Frenchman taunted back.

“You lie!”

Joe had not been a boy among boys for nothing.  He knew the penalty which attached itself to the words he had just spoken, and he expected to receive it.  So he was not overmuch surprised when he picked himself up from the floor of the cockpit an instant later, his head still ringing from a stiff blow between the eyes.

“Say dat one time more,” French Pete bullied, his fist raised and prepared to strike.

Tears of anger stood in Joe’s eyes, but he was calm and in deadly earnest.  “When you say I am a thief, Pete, you lie.  You can kill me, but still I will say you lie.”

“No, you don’t!” ’Frisco Kid had darted in like a cat, preventing a second blow, and shoving the Frenchman back across the cockpit.

“You leave the boy alone!” he continued, suddenly unshipping and arming himself with the heavy iron tiller, and standing between them.  “This thing ’s gone just about as far as it ’s going to go.  You big fool, can’t you see the stuff the boy ’s made of?  He speaks true.  He ’s right, and he knows it, and you could kill him and he would n’t give in.  There ’s my hand on it, Joe.”  He turned and extended his hand to Joe, who returned the grip.  “You ’ve got spunk and you ’re not afraid to show it.”

French Pete’s mouth twisted itself in a sickly smile, but the evil gleam in his eyes gave it the lie.  He shrugged his shoulders and said, “Ah!  So?  He does not dee-sire dat I call him pet names.  Ha, ha!  It is only ze sailorman play.  Let us—­what you call—­forgive and forget, eh?  Vaire good; forgive and forget.”

He reached out his hand, but Joe refused to take it.  ’Frisco Kid nodded approval, while French Pete, still shrugging his shoulders and smiling, passed into the cabin.

“Slack off ze main-sheet,” he called out, “and run down for Hunter’s Point.  For one time I will cook ze dinner, and den you will say dat it is ze vaire good dinner.  Ah!  French Pete is ze great cook!”

“That ’s the way he always does—­gets real good and cooks when he wants to make up,” ’Frisco Kid hazarded, slipping the tiller into the rudder-head and obeying the order.  “But even then you can’t trust him.”

Joe nodded his head, but did not speak.  He was in no mood for conversation.  He was still trembling from the excitement of the last few moments, while deep down he questioned himself on how he had behaved, and found nothing to be ashamed of.

CHAPTER XIII

BEFRIENDING EACH OTHER