Oh, it was not his size.  Yankee Swope was only of medium build; I was much the better man physically, and could have wiped the deck with him in short order—­though, of course, a quick death would have rewarded any such attempt upon the master of the Golden Bough.  Nor was his face ill to look at.  Indeed, he had a handsome face, though beard and mustache covered half of it, and there was a peculiar and disturbing glitter in his black eyes.  Some of my fear was caused, I think, by the sinister softness of his voice.  But most of it was caused by the impression the man, himself, gave—­call it personality, if you like.  It was much like the impression of utter recklessness that Newman gave, only in Yankee Swope’s case it was not recklessness, but utter wickedness.  An aura of evil seemed to cling about him, he walked about in an atmosphere of black iniquity that was horrifying.  Any foremast hand would look after Yankee Swope and say, “There—­he’s sold his soul to the Devil!  He’s a bad one, a real bad one, and no mistake!”

So I looked after him, and thought, while he paced the poop, and I held the wheel.  “You’re in for it, Shreve!” I thought.  “This packet is so hot she sizzles, and this Old Man is a bad egg, and no fatal error!  There will be bloody, sudden death before this passage is ended, or I’m a ruddy soldier!”

Standing there at the wheel, with one eye upon Captain Swope and the other upon my work, I found I owned a full measure of rueful thoughts.  The Golden Bough was an eye-opener to me, used though I was to hard ships and hard men.  I wished I had not shown myself such a hard case back there in the Swede’s.  I cursed myself for the vainglorious fool I was for having put myself in such a hole.  The only rift in my cloud of gloom was Lynch; the second mate seemed favorably disposed towards me, I reflected, and had promised to choose me for his watch.  He said I would be safe if I jumped lively to my work.  I promised myself to do that same, for I foresaw a cruel fate for the malingering man aboard that vessel.

From Lynch, my thoughts naturally jumped to Newman.  What had become of him?  Deserted, as Lynch had declared?  Developed a craven streak, and cleared out?  No.  My grim, reserved companion of the night before had had some strong, secret purpose in joining the Golden Bough; if he had deserted, I knew it was in obedience to that same hidden purpose, and not from fear of ship or officers.

It was while I was speculating about Newman’s disappearance that Mister Lynch came aft and reported that fact to the Old Man, in my hearing.  “We have them all hustling except two,” he told Swope.  “One jasper the Swede dosed with his black bottle, and another one who has been sandbagged.  I’ll have them on deck by muster.  A damned seedy bunch, taken by and large, Captain.  We’re one hand shy!”

“What’s that?  One hand shy?” exclaimed Swope, sharply.