“Did he—?” gasped his wife.

“He did,” replied the Cap’n, shortly, and was silent for a time.

“The thing for me to have done,” he went on, despondently, “was to report it, and stood hearin’.  But it was six weeks after we’d dropped him overboard—­after the funeral, ye know—­before we reached port.  And there was a cargo ashore jest dancin’ up and down to slip through the main hatch as soon as t’ other one was over the rail—­and freights ‘way up and owners anxious for results, and me tryin’ for a record, and all that, ye know.  All is, there wa’n’t nothin’ said by the crew, for they wa’n’t lookin’ for trouble, and knowed the circumstances, and so I lo’ded and sailed.  And that’s all to date.”

“But they say ‘murder will out.’” Her face was white.

“It wa’n’t murder.  It was discipline.  And I didn’t mean to.  But either his soft spot was too soft, or else I hit too hard.  What I ought to have done was to report when my witnesses was right handy.  Since I’ve settled and married and got property, I’ve woke up in the night, sometimes, and thought what would happen to me if that Portygee’s relatives got track of me through one of the crew standin’ in with ‘em—­blabbin’ for what he could git out of it.  I have to think about those things, now that I’ve got time to worry.  Things looks different ashore from what they do aflo’t, with your own ship under you and hustlin’ to make money.”  He gazed round the room again, and seemed to luxuriate in his repentance.

“But if anything should be said, you could hunt up those men and—­”

“Hunt what?” the Cap’n blurted.  “Hunt tarheels once they’ve took their dunnage-bags over the rail?  Hunt whiskers on a flea!  What are you talkin’ about?  Why, Louada Murilla, I never even knowed what the Portygee’s name was, except that I called him Joe.  A skipper don’t lo’d his mem’ry with that sculch any more’n he’d try to find names for the hens in the deck-coop.

“I made a mistake,” he continued, after a time, “in not havin’ it cleaned up, decks washed, and everything clewed snug at the time of it.  But ev’ry man makes mistakes.  I made mine then.  It would be God-awful to have it come down on me when I couldn’t prove nothin’ except that I give him the best funeral I could.  There ain’t much of anything except grit in the gizzard of a United States court.  They seem to think the Govumment wants every one hung.  I remember a captain once who—­”

He paused suddenly, for he caught sight of three muddy wagons trundling in procession into the yard.  In the first one sat Constable Zeburee Nute, his obtrusive nickel badge on his overcoat.

Cap’n Sproul looked at Louada Murilla, and she stared at him, and in sudden panic both licked dry lips and were silent.  The topic they had been pursuing left their hearts open to terror.  There are moments when a healthy body suddenly absorbs germs of consumption that it has hitherto thrown off in hale disregard.  There are moments when the mind and courage are overwhelmed by panic that reason does not pause to analyze.