He was no beachcomber or sailor, one could tell that at a glance.  His skin had no tan upon it.  It was white and soft.  Obviously, he was no inhabitant of the underworld of forecastles and waterside groggeries.  His white face looked intelligent and forceful even in unconsciousness.

In some way, the man had come by a wicked blow upon the head.  It was the cause, I suspected, of his swoon, and stertorous breathing.  Dried blood was plastered on the boards about his head, and his thick, dark hair was clotted and matted with the flow from his wound.

Lynch leaned over, and opened one of the fellow’s loosely clenched hands.  It was as white and soft as a lady’s hand.

“This jasper is no bum—­or sailor!” declared Lynch.  “That damn Swede’s been up to some o’ his tricks.  Well—­we’ll make a sailor of him before we fetch China Sea, I reckon!” He straightened, and turned on me with another demand for Newman.  “Where did you say that big jasper was?”

I shrugged my shoulders helplessly.  I could have sworn Newman had turned into that bunk; and I told him so.

Lynch snorted.  “Didn’t have the guts to face the music, I reckon, and cleared out!  Well, if he tried to swim for it, I’ll bet he’s feeding fishes now!” His eyes roved around the room.  Several of the bunks were occupied by nondescript figures, but Newman’s huge bulk did not appear.  “Damned seedy bunch,” commented Lynch.  “Couldn’t afford to lose good beef.  Hello—­who’s this?”

His eyes rested upon the bunk farthest forward, athwartship bunk in the eyes.  The body of a big man lying therein loomed indistinctly in the gloom of the corner.  Lynch reached the bunk with a bound, and I was close behind.

But it was not Newman.  It was—­the Cockney!  The very man to whom the Swede had tendered the runner’s job, the man Newman had manhandled!  He lay on his back, snoring loudly, his bloated, unlovely face upturned to us.

I laughed.  “It’s the runner,” I said.  “The Swede’s first runner.  Swede gave him the job yesterday.”

“And gave him a swig out of the black bottle last night!” commented Lynch.  Then he grasped the significance of the Swede’s double cross, and his laughter joined mine. “Ho, ho—­shanghaied his own runner! Ho, ho . . . that damned Swede!”

Then it evidently struck Mister Lynch that he was conducting himself with unseemly levity in company with a foremast hand.  His face became stern, his voice hard, and my moment of grace was ended.

“Turn to!” he commanded me.  “What are you standing about for?  Get out on deck, before I boot you out!”

I knew my place, and I obeyed with alacrity.  As I reached the door, his voice held me again for a moment.

“I guess you are a smart lad,” says he.  “I’ll pick you for my watch, if Fitz doesn’t get ahead of me.  Got your nerve—­shipping in this packet!  If you know your work, and fly about it, you’ll be all right.  Otherwise, God help you!”