The backing gave Cockney heart.  “Hi’d ’ave spliced ‘is bleedin’ ’eart but ’e spoiled me throw, the blarsted Bible shark, the——­”

“That will do,” said Newman quietly, and Cockney shut up.

“Cockney has the guts, anyway,” says Boston.

“The bucko hain’t; he backed down,” says Blackie.

“That will do you,” Newman threw over his shoulder, and they shut up.

“If I were sure—­” said Newman to Cockney.  He left the sentence unfinished, but he must have looked the rest for Cockney fell into a terrible funk.

“Ow, s’ ’elp me, Hi didn’t mean no trouble.  Hit was the nyme ’e called—­’e called me old mother hout o’ ‘er blinkin’ nyme, that’s wot!  Hi didn’t mean for to do it—­but me temper—­the wy the blighter’s used us blokes—­hand the nyme on top o’ that——­”

“Well, remember, if I thought for a moment—­” broke in Newman.

I thought Cockney would flop at the big fellow’s feet this time.  But he recovered quickly enough when Newman turned away, without further words, and without offering to thump him.  He slouched forward, and immediately became the hero of the hour with the gang.  Aye; I was even a bit envious.  It took a hard case to heave a knife at a bucko—­even at his back.

“But why didn’t he shoot Cockney?” I asked Newman.  “Didn’t he see him?”

The big man glanced at Holy Joe, and smiled.  “Perhaps he didn’t want to see him,” he replied.

And I was so thick-headed I didn’t understand.  But it really was a peaceful day.  After Nils’ chest went aft, we might have been a comfortable family ship so little were we troubled by the afterguard.  Lynch, of course, kept his watch busy while it was on deck, but he didn’t haze; and Fitzgibbon all but forgot he had a watch.  It was a queer rest.  It got upon my nerves, this waiting for something—­I didn’t know what—­to happen.

It carried over into the night, this unusual quiet.  Aye, Captain Swope kept the deck that night in the first watch, as well as Fitzgibbon, and not a single man was damned or thumped.  When we turned out for the middle watch, we found the port watch lads crowing that they had farmed away their hours on deck.

Well, we didn’t farm, by a long shot.  Trust Lynch to keep hands busy.  It was rule number one with him.  He sweated us up in the usual style, yet his manner was milder than usual and he didn’t lay a finger on even the most lubberly of the stiffs.  Aye, for the first time during the voyage—­perhaps for the first time in the life of the ship—­a full day passed in the Golden Bough and not a man felt the weight of a boot or a fist.  It was an occasion, I can tell you!

Yet, for all of the afterguard’s surprising gentleness, that mid-watch was a nightmare to me.  Newman disappeared.