But Bully Lynch made nothing of the assault.  “Ah, would you!” I heard him say as Blackie closed with him, and then the knife-hand went up in the air, and the weapon fell upon the deck.  “I’ll teach you!” said Lynch, and he commenced to shower blows upon the man.  Blackie screamed curses, and fought back futilely.  Lynch commented in a monotone with each of his thudding blows, “Take that—­that—­that.”  Soon he knocked Blackie cold, across the forehatch.  Then he turned to us who were clustered outside the foc’sle door, watching.  “Aft, with you!  Jumping, it is, now!”

Aft, we went, and jumping, too, with the mate’s laugh in our ears.

CHAPTER IX

I had the second trick at the wheel that watch, from ten o’clock till midnight.  I came panting and sweating to the task, keenly relishing the chance of resting.  For there was to be no “farming” away the night watches in the Golden Bough; the second mate had kept us upon the dead run from one job to another, and I sensed this was the routine of the ship.

It was a fine, clean smelling night of moon and stars, and brisk breeze.  The wind had freshened since day, and the vessel was stepping out and showing the paces that made her famous.  She had an easy helm; one of those rare craft that may be said to steer herself.  I had time to think, and receive impressions, as I half lounged at the wheel.  The round moon brightened the world, the west pyramids of canvas above me bellied taut, the cordage wrung a stirring whistle from the wind, the silver spray cascaded on the weather deck.  I watched the scene with delight, drank in the living beauty of that ship, and felt the witchery the Golden Bough practiced upon sailors’ minds steal over and possess me.  Aye, she was a ship!  I was soon to curse my masters, and the very day I was born, but never, after that night, did I curse the ship.  I loved her.  I felt the full force that night of a hoary sea axiom, “Ships are all right.  ’Tis the men in them.”

I was surprised not to see Captain Swope upon the poop.  According to the gossip I had heard at the Knitting Swede’s, this eight to twelve watch was Yankee Swope’s favorite prowling time.  But he did not appear; indeed, he had not shown himself since he had so ignominiously surrendered the deck to Newman.  I was not disappointed.  I shouldn’t have cared if he remained below the entire voyage.

But I did see the lady that watch.  When Mister Lynch, and his familiars (of whom more anon), had gone forward to a job, she suddenly stepped out of the companion hatch and flitted aft towards me.  Then, when she was close enough to discern my features by the reflection from the binnacle lights, she stopped.  I heard a sort of gasping sigh that meant, I knew, disappointment, and she moved over to the rail, and stood staring at the sea.

I knew what was wrong.  She had, in the darkness, mistaken my very respectable bulk for Newman’s gigantic body.  She had expected to find Newman at the wheel; she was eager for a private word with him.