I watched the little man, awe-stricken.  I had been bred to worship force, it was the only deity I knew, and Holy Joe was in my eyes the symbol of force.  He radiated force, and it was a strange and wonderful force.  I had glimpsed this power in Newman; now, for the first time in my life I saw it fully revealed.  The only kind of force I had known or imagined was brute force, the kind of force Mister Fitzgibbon epitomized; but now, in this duel of wills that was taking place before my eyes, I saw another and superior power at work.  It was a force of the mind, or soul, that Holy Joe employed; it was a moral force that poured out of the clean spirit of the man and subdued the brute force pitted against him.

“Put down that weapon!” Holy Joe repeated.

Slowly, the mate lowered his arm.

The parson turned to the squareheads; aye, he turned his back full upon the bucko, and the latter made no move against him.

“Obey your orders, men,” Holy Joe said to the sailors.  “Go to your work as he commands.  I will stay with the boy.”

The squareheads obeyed without question.  They knew, just as all of us knew, that their little champion was in no danger of mishandling, at least not at that moment.  They trooped aft, heavy-footed, murmuring, but docile, and joined the stiffs at the lee braces.  Holy Joe, now alone on that deck so far as physical backing went, turned again to the mate.  But indeed he needed no physical backing; his indomitable spirit had cowed the bucko.

“Your men will give you no further trouble, sir; they are at their stations,” said he.

It was the first time he had used the “sir.”  For an instant it seemed a weakening.  It gave Mister Fitzgibbon the heart to bluster.

“I ordered you aft with the rest,” he began.  “What d’ye mean——­”

“I have other work to do this watch—­as you know,” interrupted the parson.  He said the words so solemnly and sternly they sounded like a judgment; aye, and they nipped the rising courage of the mate.  He could only mumble, and stammer out,

“You—­you refuse duty?”

Holy Joe was silent for an instant.  All of us were silent.  One could have heard a pin drop upon the deck.  Then, out of the port foc’sle, a dreadful sound came to our ears, a low, strangled moan.  It stabbed the vitals of the most hardened of us; with my own eyes I saw the mate tremble.  Aye, in some way Holy Joe had sent a fear into the brute soul of Fitzgibbon; in some way he had sent a fear into the brute souls of us all, and, at least in my case, a great wonder.  The pain-filled wail of Nils, coming as it did, seemed magic-inspired to light for me a universal truth.  I felt it crudely, saw it dimly, but there it was, dramatized before my eyes, the age-long, ceaseless battle between the Beast in Man and the God in Man, the resistless power of service and sacrifice.  Aye, and Holy Joe’s softly spoken reply to the mate’s words confirmed what I saw and felt.