“By God, I never go on deck but I’m scared o’ my life!” swore one of the stiffs, named Green.  And he voiced the common feeling.

I was, of course, much concerned for the parson.  I went into the port foc’sle to look at him—­and he looked bad, lying there unconscious.  The squareheads had washed his face, but had not ventured to touch his arm.  His face was in a shocking state, and I feared his body might be broken, as was Nils’ body.  He was much worse off than I; for he had not my iron muscles, to withstand hard knocks, nor my skill in rough-and-tumble fighting, which had enabled me to protect the vital parts of my body.

“We’ll have to get him aft, where the lady can attend to him—­or else get her for’ard,” I declared.

“No chance,” answered Boston.

“If we take him aft dey ban kill him,” asserted one of the squareheads.

“She can’t come for’ard; she’s locked in her room,” said another.

“How do you know that?” I cried.

“Cockney says so.  He was there when the skipper locked her in,” said Boston.

For an instant I forgot Holy Joe, and his evil plight.

“What yarn did that Cockney bring for’ard with him?” I demanded.

“Why, he was there when they got the Big ’Un,” answered Blackie.  “He was helpin’ the steward break out a cask o’ beef from the lazaret, when they brought Big ’Un into the cabin, cuffed up, and with the drop on him.  He says the hen squawked, and the Old Man shut her in her room.  Then they kicked him out on deck, so he wouldn’t see too much o’ what was goin’ on.  He says they put the Big ‘Un down in the lazaret, and they’re goin’ to croak him sure, and if we got any guts we’ll go aft tonight and turn him loose.  That’s what Cockney says.”

Well, I let myself go, verbally.  I said things about that Cockney, and I was only sorry Cockney was not there to hear them.  I knew most of the hard words of three languages, and I used them all.  Oh, it was a relief to give even verbal release to the ocean of hate and rage in my soul!  I told the crowd what I thought of Cockney.  Then I told them why.  I told them what had really happened in the cabin, what Cockney really was.

They believed me.  They knew me; they knew I would not lie in such a case, they could not help but sense the sincerity of my loathing.  They knew Cockney, also.  They knew he was the sort to spy and perjure—­a good many of them were that sort themselves!—­and as soon as I paused for breath, this man and that began to recall certain suspicious acts of Cockney he had noticed.  Aye, they believed me, and the curses heaped on Cockney’s head were awful to the ear.