Nigger did not pause in his work, but he turned his battered face to me.  A couple of days before he had fallen afoul of the mate’s brass knuckles for perhaps the twentieth time since he had been in the ship, and his face was a mass of bruised flesh, a shocking sight, even though his color hid the extent of his injuries.

The Nigger had been, perhaps, the worst misused man in the crew—­and this notwithstanding the fact he was by far the best sailor in the port watch.  But Fitzgibbon hated “damned niggers,” especially did he hate “these spar-colored half-breeds,” as he was fond of calling this fellow.  I do believe he chose the Nigger for his watch so he might pummel him to his heart’s content.  Beat him up he had, constantly, and without cause, and as a result Nigger had become a surly, moody man.

“Who say dat Ah know?” demanded Nigger, in reply to my question.

“Boston said so.”

“Dat man’s too free wif his lip.  Ah don’t tell him Ah knows who’s the spy; Ah tells him Ah knows dey is one.”

I waited patiently, for Nigger’s temper would not bear pressing.  He reversed his stone, spat upon it, and resumed his monotonous whetting, then, after looking around to make sure he could not be overheard, he explained what he did know.

“Night befoh last Ah was hangin’ ’round aft——­”

“What?” I cried, surprised.  “Hanging around aft—­what for?”

“Dat’s my business,” he told me, curtly.  Then, after a moment, he added, “But Ah don’t care if yoh know, because Ah knows yoh ain’t no snitch.  Ah was hangin’ ‘round waitin’ to meet Mistah Mate when he ain’t got them othah two debbils wif him.  Ah was waitin’ ’round to meet dat man alone.  And he come to de break ob de poop wif de Old Man, and de Old Man say, ‘Ah got a good man watchin’ every move he makes; he can’t turn around in de foc’sle wifout me knowin’ it.  We’ll be wahned befoh it happens.’  Dat’s what de Old Man say to Mistah Mate.  And Ah knows he mus’ be talkin’ about de big fellow, and so Ah tells Boston about it.”

“But didn’t you hear any names mentioned?” I asked him.

“Dat’s all Ah hears,” he answered.  “Den dey went away.”

I was disappointed.  The Nigger’s news amounted to just nothing; we already knew that a spy was watching Newman.  But indeed this fact seemed not so threatening as it had a few hours before.  Newman’s careless contempt of the spy had made me contemptuous, too.  And, indeed, what could a spy report against the big man that could injure him?  Newman was openly working for peace, counseling obedience.  His actions invited scrutiny.

I voiced this thought to my companion.

“Well, anyway, a spy can’t hurt Newman.  He is doing nothing underhand, or wrong.  He’s keeping peace in this ship.”

Nigger gave a queer little hoot of derision.  “Does Ah look like peace?” he said.  “Dis am a debbil-ship; Ah tells yoh dey can’t be no peace in dis ship nohow.”