I recognized that awful shadow, too.  But I saw more than the shadow.  I saw a white hand appear on the door jamb.  A ghost-like hand, it was so white and small, a patch of plaid cloth, a little bare, white foot lifting above the sill, and then the tam and the white face beneath it.  Aye, that white face with its great, staring eyes!

So much I saw during the instant I stood in the doorway.  Then Newman pushed past me and crossed the port foc’sle in a bound.  He joined the white face in the other doorway, and disappeared with it into the outer darkness.

Not a man save I—­and Newman—­had had nerve enough to turn out.  Not a man save I—­and Newman—­had seen that white face.  Even Nigger had not seen it; he had run out on deck through the starboard door.  But my watch-mates were awake and eager.  “Is it gone?” they chorused.

“Yes,” I answered gruffly.  I rolled into my bunk, and turned my face to the wall.  My wits were still spinning from shock, and I didn’t want to answer questions.

“Where did Big ’Un go?” came from Blackie’s bunk.

“How do I know?  Stow the guff, the lot of you; I want to sleep.”

But I didn’t sleep.  I lay there thinking about the face I had seen.  Nils’ shadow, Nils’ clothes—­and the lady’s face!  The ghost that had scared all hands was the lady dressed in Nils’ clothes!

CHAPTER XVII

The lady brought Newman bad news.  As I afterwards learned, the steward overheard a conversation between the captain and the mate, and reported it to her, and she immediately risked her masquerade forward to carry the tale to Newman.

During the morning Newman said to me, “Watch your step to-day, Jack.  Trouble brewing.”

I watched my step, but not until the middle of the afternoon watch, when I went aft to relieve Newman at the wheel, did I see any indications of a coming breach of the afterguard’s own peace.  I sensed it then, before I saw it.  Aye, as soon as I stepped upon the poop I smelled the old air.  The very carriage of the officers said that the old times were back again.

Newman gave me the course.  I repeated it aloud, as is the custom.  Then he whispered, hurriedly.

“I think he intends to lock me up.  Help Deakin keep peace for’ard.  Remember, lad, my life—­and hers—­may depend upon it.”

He started forward.  I wanted to call after him, run after him, ask him a score of questions and directions.

But I was chained to my task.  I dare not leave the wheel.  Neither dare I call out.  For Captain Swope had appeared on deck.  He stood lounging against the companion hatch, staring aft, in our direction.  Bucko Fitzgibbon stood by his side.  They had suddenly appeared from below as the helm was changing hands.

Aye, and as soon as I clapped eyes upon them I knew that at last hell was about to bubble over.  They had thrown off the masks of meekness that so ill fitted them.  Fitzgibbon was truculence personified.  The expression in Swope’s face when he looked at Newman was so terrible it might almost of itself make a lad stop breathing—­an expression of gloating, pitiless, triumphant cruelty.