And Swope!  Well, I cannot explain or judge his character.  It would take a medical man to do that, I think.  He was his two mates rolled into one, plus brains.  He had fed a certain strong Sadistic element in his nature until inflicting pain upon others had become his chief passion.  I can imagine his perverted soul living in former lives—­as a Familiar of the Inquisition, or the red-clad torturer of some medieval prince.  But explain him, no.  I will tell his ending, you may judge.

But, of course, I was not musing upon the economy of hell-ships, or the characters of bucko mates, during the balance of that trick at the wheel.  The lady’s message to Newman possessed my mind.

When I went forward at eight bells, I immediately called Newman aside, and delivered her words.  He listened in silence, and his face grew soft.  He squeezed my hand, and whispered somewhat brokenly, “Thank you, Jack”—­an exhibition of emotion that startled as much as it pleased me, he being such a stern man.

Then, when I repeated the latter part of the lady’s message, “Tell him . . . to look behind him when he walks in the dark,” his features hardened again, and I heard him mutter, “So, that is his game!”

“What is?” I asked.

He did not answer for a moment, and I turned away towards my bunk.  But at that he reached out a detaining hand.

“You are a big man, Shreve,” he said.  “Not such a difference in our sizes but that a man might mistake us after dark.  Keep your weather eye lifted, lad; you, too, must look behind when you walk in the dark.”

“And what shall I look for?” asked I.

“Death,” he said.

CHAPTER X

Came morning, but not the lady.

And the foc’sle was in sad need of her ministrations.  Quite half the crew needed salves and bandages for their bruises and cuts, and there was, besides, a more serious case demanding attention.

When the starboard watch was called at four o’clock, we heard a low, insistent moaning in the port foc’sle.  The man who called us said that the little squarehead—­the lad Swope had manhandled—­had again fallen afoul the masters.  The hurts Swope had inflicted prevented the boy moving about as quickly as Mister Fitzgibbon desired, so the bucko had laid him out and walked upon him during the mid-watch.  When he was through, the lad had crawled on his hands and knees into the foc’sle, and collapsed.

By eight o’clock in the morning, when the starboard watch went below again, we found the poor chap daft, and babbling, and on fire with fever.  The mate gave up his efforts to arouse him, and admitted to Lynch that “the damn little stock fish is a bit off color.  Needs a dose o’ black draught.”

After breakfast, Newman and I stepped into the port foc’sle.  The squareheads of our watch were already there, sitting gloomily about, or clumsily attempting to make the injured youth more comfortable.