“Why, what’s wrong with him?”

“Wrong?  He’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?”

“Dangerous, yes.  Why, look at the mop of hair and the eyes of him.  He’s one of those trouble-hunters, that chap.  And if troubles don’t turn up naturally, he’ll go out and dig them up.  He’s like one of those kind I read about once—­used to live a thousand years ago.  All he needs is a horse seventeen hands high, and a wash-boiler on his chest, and a tin kettle on his head, and one of those long lances, and he’d go tilting about the country like that Don Quick-sote—­”

“Don what?”

“Quick-sote—­Quick-sote.  That crazy Spaniard who went butting up against windmills in that book of yours you leave around the cabin.  A good name for him—­Don John Quick-sote—­running around buttin’ into things he can’t straighten out.”

“He could do all that and yet be the best kind of a man.  And the bosun—­why, before I ever heard the name of this ship, I’d heard of her bosun.  He’s a notorious brute.”

“He’s the kind of a brute I want to have around.  He will do what I order him.”

“Did you order him to bring on this fight?”

“And if I did, what of it?  Do I have to account to you for what I do on my ship?  That pump-man is dangerous, I tell you.  Why, just before we sailed, I was telephoning over to the office to find out how he happened to be shipped, and a clerk—­”

“The second clerk, was it?”

“What does it matter who it was?  He said to watch out for him, too—­that he was the kind who knew it all.  Wherever the office got him I don’t know.  And if you know anybody in the office with a pull, you ought to put it up to them, Mr. Noyes, when you go back.  This pump-man, he’s the kind recognizes no authority.”

“Why, I thought he was very respectful toward your officers.  And he seems to do his work on the jump, too, captain.”

“He carries out orders, yes; but if he felt like it, he’d tell me to go to hell as quick as he’d tell the bosun.  I can see it in his eye.”

“Don’t you think he only wants to be treated with respect?”

“Treated with respect!  Who do you think you’re talkin’ to—­the cook?  I don’t have to treat one of my crew with respect.  I’m captain of my own ship, do you hear?—­captain of this ship, and I’ll treat the crew as I damn please.”

“I guess you will, too; but don’t swear at me, captain.  I’m not one of your crew.”

Noyes descended to the chart-room deck.  “I wish,” he breathed, “that that pump-man had never seen this ship.  They’ll kill him before the day’s over.”

III

The after-rail of the chart-room deck looked almost directly down the hatch whereon the fight was to take place.  As Noyes was taking his position by the rail he guessed that the bosun must have just said something which pleased the crew, for most of them were still laughing heartily.