I went after Newman.  He was sitting on the edge of his bunk, musing, and the note was open upon his knee.  He handed it to me to read.

It was just a strip of wrapping paper, hastily scribbled over in pencil.  But the handwriting was dainty and feminine.  It was from the lady, plainly enough, even though no name was signed.

“We have quarreled, and he has forbidden me to leave the cabin, or go forward this voyage.  He is drinking, he is desperate—­oh, Roy, be careful, he is capable of anything.  I know him now.  Do not come aft with the sick.”

I looked at Newman inquiringly.  But he said nothing to supplement the note.  He took it from me, lighted a match, and burned it up.  I guessed he was disappointed, that he had counted upon the lady coming forward.

“And did the little dear write?  And what did she say,” drawled an unpleasant voice behind us.

I swung about with a start, and saw Boston and Blackie lying in their bunks, one above the other.  Boston had spoken, but they were both eyeing Newman.

The dangerous light came into Newman’s face.  “Mind your own business!” he said, shortly.

There was a moment of uncomfortable silence, broken by Boston, with a wheedling note in his voice.

“Aw, say, Big ’Un, don’t get horstile.  We didn’t mean to horn in.  We just want to be friends; we feel hurt, Blackie an’ me, at the way you’re giving us the go by.  We’re all on the dodge together, ain’t we?  And we got a rich lay, I tell you!  Blackie and me has it all figured out, but we need you to lead, Big ’Un.  What d’ye want to pal with that cub for, when two old friends like Blackie an’ me are ready and willing to work for you?  We got a rich lay, I tell you!”

“Damn your thieving schemes,” said Newman.

“Aw, now, bring the cub in, if you like,” persisted Boston.  “He’s a game ’un.”

Blackie, the hot-headed, spoke up, resentfully.  He lifted his battered face on his elbow, and lisped through the gap Lynch’s fist had made in his teeth.  “Number seven hundred and three wasn’t so finicky about his pals the time he jumped the dead line, and ditched the Big House!”

Newman crossed the foc’sle with one catlike bound.  He got Blackie by the throat and yanked him from the bunk.  Then he shook him, and threw him into the farther corner.

“There will be no scheme set on foot from this foc’sle, save the one I father,” he told the pair in his cool, level voice.  “I gave you your answer last night.  Now, if you two come between me and my goal, in this ship, as God lives, I’ll kill you!”

With that, he swung about and stepped into the port foc’sle.

“Come on, Shreve,” he said to me, over his shoulder.  “Lend a hand.  You and I must attend to this boy.”

Presently I was standing by Nils’ bunk, together with the squareheads, marveling at the gentleness with which Newman’s huge hands handled the sufferer.  It was an exhibition of practiced skill.  The feeling was strong on me that moment that Newman had gained this skill in no foc’sle, but in a cabin, where as master he had doctored his own sick.