“Well, Blackie, how about dinner?” I asked, when I released my grip.

In answer, he backed quickly away from me, spluttering oaths and salt water.  I watched him warily, for his affair with the second mate had shown him to be a knife wielder, and I had no wish to be stabbed.  True enough, he jerked out his sheath knife.

“Stop that, you fool!” came Boston’s voice, from behind me.  “Do you want to crab the whole game?”

Those words had an astonishing effect upon Blackie.  His bellicose attitude vanished abruptly, he stopped cursing, and his knife went back into its sheath.

“That dinner, Blackie,” I insisted.

“Sure—­I’ll get it,” he answered submissively.

But I wasn’t satisfied with my victory.  Of course, I was confident I could have knocked him out as handily as Bucko Lynch, himself, but I knew it was not fear of me, but obedience to Boston’s words that caused Blackie to give in so readily.

Those words bothered me.  “Do you want to crab the whole game?” Now what the deuce did Boston mean?  What game were these two worthies up to?  Undoubtedly, it was that “rich lay” they had spoken to Newman about.  But what had I to do with it?  How could I crab their game?  I began to think there was something besides loose talk in these hints of revenge and loot the pair were dropping in the foc’sle.

I guess Boston knew my suspicions must be aroused, and thought it time to sound my sentiments.  Also, as it turned out, he wanted to pump me regarding Newman.  I was Newman’s one close friend, and Boston must have thought I knew something of the big man’s intentions.

Anyway, after supper that evening, as I was sitting on the forehatch, whittling away at a model of the Golden Bough I was making, Boston came and sat down beside me.

“Should think you’d be so fed up with this hooker, you wouldn’t want any model of her,” he remarked, by way of opening a conversation.

“She’s a bonny ship,” I told him.  “It is not the ship, it is the men in her.  You’ll never see a better craft than the Golden Bough, Boston.”

“Faugh!” he snorted, and followed with a blistering curse.  “Blast your pretty ships!  I’d like to see this old hooker go on the rocks, by God I would!  Well—­maybe I will see her finish, eh?”

I glanced at him sidewise, and discovered he was likewise regarding me, with the lids drawn over his pale eyes till they were mere slits.  I didn’t like Boston’s eyes.  For that matter, I didn’t like anything about Boston.  But I was interested; I sensed this was no idle talk.  There was something behind the words.

“Small chance of your seeing her finish,” I said.  “As well found a ship as there is afloat—­and you may call the Old Man and his buckos what you will, but they are sailormen.”

“I’ve heard of ships sinking in storms,” says he.

“You talk like the stiff you are,” I scoffed.  “Show me the weather that will drown the Golden Bough, with good sailors aft!  Besides, Boston, we’re not likely to have any bad weather, for which you can say a prayer of thanks, for you stiffs would catch it if we did pick up a decent blow.”