“God blast you forever, Angus!” he cried.

Just that, and no more.  Newman had his grip again.  He was no man to indulge in impotent ravings.

But the outburst was sufficient to delight Captain Swope.  He threw back his head and laughed that chuckling, demon’s laugh of his.  Delighted—­why, he could hardly control himself to keep his seat on the keg, and as he laughed his feet beat a jig upon the deck.

“I told you to call upon God!” was his gleeful answer to Newman.  “And you have!  Now, we’ll see who wins—­you and God, or Angus and the Devil!  Eh, Roy—­who wins?

“We’ll see, Roy—­we’ll see if God takes your advice.  We’ll see if He helps you, or Lynch.  Or Mary.  Ah, the saintly Mary, the pure, the unapproachable!  We’ll see if He protects her from Fitz’s dirty arms, or the greasy kisses of the Cockney!  Eh, Roy?  We’ll see if He keeps her from—­eliminating herself!

“That’s the way of it, Roy.  Clever—­yes?  Neatness and thoroughness, and everything shipshape and Bristol fashion—­that’s my style, Roy.  I know Mary (who should know her better than her legal spouse, eh, Roy?) and I have arranged matters so she will tuck in her own end.  Listen, Roy, I have another item for the logbook which Fitzgibbon will copy.  It needs but a date-line to be complete.  It will read like this:  ’To-day, while suffering from an attack of temporary insanity, the captain’s wife destroyed herself.  The captain is broken-hearted.’  With details added, Roy.  And the yarn cabled home when we make port.  Suicide at sea—­and I am broken-hearted!  Artistic, eh?  And she’ll do it—­you know she’ll do it!”

He sat there watching Newman, waiting.  I suppose he expected and desired a fresh outburst from the prisoner.  But in this he was disappointed; Newman gave no sign.

“Ah, well, I fear I’ve overstayed my welcome this visit,” he said, finally.  He got to his feet, and stood before Newman with legs spraddled and arms akimbo; drinking in lustfully the picture of the other man’s utter misery.  “Interesting chat we’ve had—­old times, future, and all that—­eh, Roy?  But a sailor’s work, you know—­like a woman’s—­never done.  I have duties to attend to, Roy.  But I will return—­ah, yes, you know I will return.  You’ll wait here for me, eh, Roy?  Anxiously awaiting my return, counting the bells against my coming.  Well—­remember—­eight bells in the middle watch.”

He turned and stepped towards the ladder.  With his foot raised to the bottom step, he stopped, and stared aloft, mouth agape.  I stared too, and listened.

We heard a shot, a single pistol shot.

The captain wheeled upon Newman.  His hand flew to his pistol pocket.  But he did not draw.  He would have died then and there, if he had, for I was tensed for the leap.

But he was uncertain.  This was not the hour—­and the other shots, the volley, we both expected did not come.  Instead, came the second mate’s voice bellowing orders, “Connolly—­the wheel!  Hard alee!  Weather main brace!” Then, clearer, as he shouted through the cabin skylights, “Captain—­on deck, quick!”