But, after all, he was no surgeon, and there was little he could do for the lad.  Newman undressed him—­the squareheads had not been able to accomplish this feat, because of the pain their rough handling caused—­and bared the poor broken body to view.  The squareheads cursed deeply and bitterly at the sight of the shocking bruises on the white flesh.  Nils was delirious, staring up at us with brilliant, unseeing eyes, and babbling in his own lingo.

“He say, mudder, mudder,” commented Lindquist in a choked voice.  “I know his mudder.”

Newman explored the hurts with his finger, and his gentle touch brought gasps of agony.  His face grew very grave.  Then he ripped up a blanket, and with my assistance, skillfully bandaged Nils about the body.

When he was through, he looked Lindquist in the eyes, and shook his head.

“So?” said Lindquist.  His eyes, so stupid and dull a while before, were blazing now.  Aye, it was evident his law-abiding mind had arrived at a lawless decision; his lowering face boded no good for the brute who had maltreated his young friend.  “Gott, if he die!” he said.  It was a full-mouthed promise to avenge, that sentence.

As we left, I became aware that Boston and Blackie had followed Newman and me, and had witnessed the scene.  Said Boston to his mate, in a low voice that I just caught,

“If the kid croaks we’ll have the squareheads with us.”

CHAPTER XI

Captain Swope did not emerge from the cabin that day, nor the next day, nor the next.  But we obtained plain confirmation of the lady’s word he was drinking, when, every morning the Chinese cabin boy brought empty bottles out on deck and heaved them overboard.  Whereat, all the thirsty souls forward clicked their tongues and swore.

But this interim, during which Yankee Swope stayed below, and moped and drank, was, you may be sure, no peaceful period for the foc’sle.  The Golden Bough’s mates could be trusted to hustle the crowd whether or not the skipper’s eyes were upon them.  There was bloody, knock-about work with belaying pin and knuckles, while the ship settled down into deep sea form, and the mob of stiffs learned to keep out of its own way and hand the right rope when yelled at.

Since leaving port, the Golden Bough had been standing a southerly course, on a port tack.  Now, on the third day, the wind hauled around aft, and came on us from the nor’east, as a freshening gale.  We squared away, and went booming down before it, true clipper style.  By nightfall it was blowing hard, and the kites were doused.

The night came down black as coal tar, with an overcast sky, and lightning playing through the cloud in frequent, blinding flashes.  My watch had the deck from eight to twelve, and Mister Lynch (and his satellites, Chips and Sails) kept us hustling fore and aft, sweating sheets, and taking a heave at this and that.