I heard the lady gasp, and knew my message was received and understood.  I waited for no other response.  I scuttled away from that perilous spot as fast as caution permitted my legs to travel.  Jack Shreve was no Newman; I had not his cool nerve when it came to flouting hell-ship rules.  In truth, I was in a blue funk all the time I was aft, for fear I would be discovered.  And there was another reason for my haste in getting forward.  There was a sudden uproar in front of the foc’sle that bade fair to carry through the ship.

There was trouble in the air; I could sniff it as I ran.  Although time enough had elapsed since the mate sang out his order to man the braces, the watch was not yet at the rail; and this was a strange thing in a ship where men literally flew about their work.  The trouble was in the port foc’sle; I could see the crowd bunched on the deck before the door, and Mister Fitzgibbon’s voice had risen to a shrill, obscene scream as he poured blistering curses upon some luckless head.

I dodged across the deck and around the starboard side of the deck house, and thus came upon the scene in a casual manner, as though I had just stepped out of my own foc’sle to see what was wrong.  I mingled with my watch mates, who had turned out to a man to watch the row.

Over on the port side of the deck a royal shindy seemed to be preparing.  Aye, the mate had at last struck fire from his squareheads!  They were on the verge of open rebellion.  The stiffs of the port watch had fallen to one side, and stood quaking and irresolute, but the squareheads, all of them, were bunched squarely between the mate and the foc’sle door, and to the mate’s stream of curses they interposed a wall of their own oaths.  Mister Fitzgibbon had his right hand in his coat pocket, and all hands knew that hand was closed about the butt of a revolver; moreover, the tradesmen stood on either side of him, prepared to back him up in whatever course he chose to take.  They were good men, those tradesmen, fighting men, and skilled in just such battles as this promised to be.  The port watch Sails, who stood nearest to me, was armed with a heavy sheet pin, and he stood with his face half turned towards the starboard side.  Aye, they were canny fighters—­if it came to blows they would not be taken in the flank by surprise.

Mister Fitzgibbon was swearing over the heads of the squareheads.  He threw his words into foc’sle.  He was calling upon Holy Joe, the parson, to come out of it blasted quick and be skinned alive, b’Gawd!  Broken bones were being promised to poor Holy Joe.  That was why the squareheads were showing fight—­not to protect their own skins, but to save the parson from the mate’s wrath.  For their little Nils was dying, and Holy Joe was by his side, praying for his passing soul.  As I learned afterwards, when the mate sang out for his watch to man the braces, all jumped to obey save the parson; he stayed with