“Yes, sir; cleared out, I expect.  Came on board last night—­one of the two the Swede told us about, who picked the ship themselves.  There’s one of them at the wheel.  But the other one, the big one, was gone this morning.  Best looking beef of the entire lot, too.  Good sailorman, or I’m a farmer; looked like an officer down on his luck.”

Swope turned to me.  “Where is the fellow who came on board with you?” he demanded.

“I don’t know, sir,” I replied.  “He had disappeared when I woke up this morning.”

“Huh!  Sounds fishy!” was his response.  “Don’t lie to me, my lad, or I’ll wring your neck for you!” He stood silent a moment, opening and shutting his fingers, just as though he were turning the matter over in the palms of his hands.  Then he cursed.

“You searched about for’ard for him?” he asked Lynch.

“Yes, sir; he isn’t on board,” the second mate answered.

“Then why are you bothering me?” the Old Man wanted to know.  “If the swab is gone, he’s gone.  Drive the rest of them the harder to make up for his loss!”

He resumed his pacing of the poop, while Lynch went forward.

I was well enough pleased by the ending of the incident.  For a moment I had feared the captain would blame me for Newman’s absence.  With the little squarehead’s fate fresh in my mind I had no desire to foul Yankee Swope’s temper.

But I could not help thinking about Newman.  His going was a mystery, and, moreover, I was sorry to see the last of him.  I wondered why he had not stayed.  It was not fear that made him clear out; of that I was certain.  What then?  The lady?

I began to think about the Golden Bough’s lady.  To think of Newman was to think of her.  I was sure she had drawn him on board the ship.  Had she, then, sent him packing ashore, while I slept?  What was he—­a discarded lover?  Was she the lass in the beggarman’s yarn?  Had he shipped so he might worship his beloved from the lowly foc’sle?  Or was he seeking vengeance?  Oh, I read my Southworth and Bulwer in those days, and had some fine ideas regarding the tender passion.  I felt sure there was some romantic heart-bond between Newman and the lady.

I wondered if the lady were really so lovely, possessed of such goodness of heart, as glowing foc’sle report declared.  Was she really an incarnate Mercy in this floating hell?  Did she really go forward and bind up the men’s hurts?  Why did she not show herself on deck this fine morning?  I wanted to see this angel who was wedded to a devil.

I heard her voice first, ascending through the skylight.  It thrilled me.  Not the words—­she was but giving a direction to the Chinese steward—­but the rich, sweet quality of the voice.  I, the foc’sle Jack, whose ears’ portion was harsh, bruising oaths, felt the feminine accents as a healing salve.  They stirred forgotten memories; they sent my mind leaping backwards over the hard years to my childhood, and the sound of my mother’s voice.  No wonder; I had scarce once heard the mellow sound of a good woman’s voice since I ran away to sea five years before, only the hard voices of hard men, and, now and then, the shrill voice of some shrew of the waterside.