Then the lady appeared at the poop rail, some paces distant from the Old Man.  It was heartening to turn one’s eyes from the Old Man’s wicked, sneering face to the face of the lady.  There was sorrow in that brooding look she gave us, and pity, and understanding.  She was used to looking upon the man-made misery of men, you felt, and skilled in softening it.  There was a stir in our ranks as we met her gaze, a half audible murmur ran down the line, and the slackest of us straightened our shoulders a trifle.  The Old Man sensed the sudden cheer amongst us, and, I think, sensed its cause, for without glancing at the lady, he drawled an order to the mate, standing just below him.

“Well, Mister Fitz, start the ball rolling—­your first say.”

The mate allowed his fierce, pig eyes to rove over us, and to my secret delight he passed me by.  “Where’s the nigger?” he said, referring to the mulatto, who was at the wheel.  “The wheel?  Well, he’s my meat.”

So the watch choosing began.  Lynch promptly chose me, as he had promised he would, and I stepped over to the starboard deck.  Fitzgibbon chose the Cockney, Lynch picked a squarehead—­so the alternate choosing went, the mates’ skilled eyes first selecting all those who showed in their appearance some evidence of sailorly experience.

“You!” said Fitzgibbon, indicating the red-shirted man, and motioning him over to the port side of the deck.

The red-shirted man, whose agitated face I had been covertly watching, instead of obeying the mate, stepped out of line and appealed to Swope.  “Captain, may I speak to you now?” he asked, in a shrill, excited voice.

“Eh, what’s this?” exclaimed Swope, gazing down at the fellow.  He lifted his hand and checked the mate, who was already about to collar his prey.  I think Swope knew just what was coming, and he found sport in the situation.  “What do you want, my man?” his soft voice inquired.

A flood of agitated words poured out of the red-shirted man’s mouth.  “Captain—­a terrible mistake—­foully mistreated, all of these men foully mistreated by your officers—­tried to see you and was beaten. . . .”  With an effort he made his speech more coherent.  “A terrible mistake, sir!  I have been kidnapped on board this vessel!  I am not a sailor, I do not know how I come to be here—­I have been kidnapped, sir!”

“How terrible!” said Swope.  “I do not doubt your word at all, my man.  Anyone can see you are no sailor, but a guttersnipe.  And possibly you were—­er—­’kidnapped,’ as you call it, in company with the wharf-rats behind you.”

“But, Captain—­good heavens, you do not understand!” cried the man.  “I am a clergyman—­a minister of the Gospel!  I am the Reverend Richard Deaken of the Bethel Mission in San Francisco!”