Blackie and Boston were plainly jubilant over this turn of events.  Now they were fairly shrewd men, even if they were damned rascals, and one would have thought they possessed sufficient insight to at least be suspicious of the skipper’s sudden ’bout-face.  But they were not.  They were just as convinced as the rest of the stiffs that the afterguard had suddenly become afraid of the foc’sle.  Just lack of imagination, I suppose; I’ve read that it is usually a characteristic of professional criminals.

They ceased hinting darkly and whispering in corners, and came out fiat-footed with their great news.  Aye, and it was a weighty argument with the stiffs.  Even though they knew about it already—­as most of them did—­it was a delight to talk about it openly.  There was money in the hooker.  That is what made their tongues wag.  Aye, money; kegs and kegs of shining trade dollars, aft in the lazaret, to be had for the taking by lads with stiff backbones.  And their backbones were stiff enough for the job.  So Boston and Blackie told them, so Cockney told them, so they told each other.

It surprised me that Newman ignored this state of affairs among the stiffs.  He could have clapped stoppers on Boston’s and Blackie’s jaws by just telling them to shut up.  They stood in such awe and fear of him.  He could have as easily silenced Cockney; aye, and the gang, too.  We all stood in awe of him.  There wasn’t a man forward who would dream of opposing him openly.

But Newman was contemptuous of stiffs’ talk.  “Oh, let them blow off steam,” says he.  “Big talk, small deeds; that’s their caliber, Jack.  They’ll have their sauciness hammered out of them quickly enough when Swope plays his next card.”

“Aye, but what if Blackie and Boston, or that Cockney, make trouble?  They are bossing the stiffs.”

“Those two jail-birds know what I will do to them if they go beyond talk,” said Newman.  “As for that Whitechapel beauty, he is quite harmless, I think.  They would not follow him into a fight; they know he is scum, like themselves, for all his bluster.  They would follow me, or you, if we led the sailors aft.  But so long as the sailors are quiet, there is no danger.  That scum would not fight alone.  And, as you know, our little friend has his Norsemen eating out of his hand.”

This last was certainly true.  By “our little friend” Newman meant Holy Joe.  The squareheads idolized him.  For one thing, his being a parson gave him, from the beginning, standing with them.  They were decent, simple villagers, with an inbred respect for the cloth.  But more important, was the service he had rendered their dead shipmate.  They were not the men to forget a thing like that, or fail to be impressed by the fine courage Holy Joe had exhibited when he faced the angry mate.