If ever a human face showed amazement and discomfiture, Swope’s did.  He had been so busy at his game of potting his officer he did not see Newman until the latter walked into his range of vision and sent forth his hail.  He could have shot Newman then, and I could not have prevented, for he had his weapon leveled.  But this sudden apparition seemed to paralyze him; he just lowered his arm, and stared.

It startled and paralyzed all hands.  The struggle on the main deck ceased abruptly.  It was the strangest thing I ever beheld, the way Newman’s thunderous command seemed to turn to graven images the men on deck.  They were frozen into grotesque attitudes, arms drawn back to strike, boots lifted to kick.  Mister Lynch stood with his capstan bar poised, as though he were at bat in a baseball game.  Every face was lifted to the giant figure standing there on the poop.  I even saw in the brilliant light a white face framed in one of the portholes in the roundhouse.

Newman repeated his command.  He did not beg or entreat; he commanded, and I don’t think there was a sailor or stiff on the main deck who, after his first word, dreamed of disobeying him.  Such was the big man’s character superiority, such was the dominance his personality had acquired over our minds.  I tell you, we of the foc’sle looked upon Newman as of different clay; it was not alone my hero-worship that magnified his stature, in all our eyes he was one of the great, a being apart from and above us.

And not only foc’sle eyes regarded him in this light.  There were the tradesmen peering out of the roundhouse ports, with never a thought in their minds of disobeying his injunction.  I had it from their own lips afterwards; it was not just surprise at the big fellow’s sudden appearance that stayed their hands, it was the power of his personality.  There was Mister Lynch, arrested by Newman’s voice in mid-stroke, as it were.  There was Swope, standing palsied and impotent, with a growing terror in his face.

“Go for’ard, lads!  Go below!  Come up here, Lynch!  Not another blow, men—­for’ard with you!”

The frozen figures on the deck came to life.  There was a murmur, a shuffling of feet, and Lynch lowered his great club.  But it was an obedient noise.

From one quarter came the single note of dissent.  The man in the main rigging sang out.  It was Boston’s voice.

“Go aft, mates!” he shouted.  “We’ve got them—­we’ve won—­don’t listen to him!” Then he threw his voice at Newman.  “Damn you, Big ’Un, you’ve spoiled the game!” A flash followed the oath, and a splinter flew from the deck at Newman’s feet.

There was a flash from my gun as well.  I fired without taking conscious aim; I swear, an invisible hand seemed to lift my arm, a finger not mine seemed to press the trigger—­and that greedy, murderous rascal in the rigging screamed, and loosed his hold.  He struck the sheer pole in his descent, and bounced into the sea.