Lynch, in charge of the deck, stood apart from the others, but he too was looking aft, not at me, but at Newman.  There was something in his bearing also which declared plainly that some ugly thing was about to happen.

Yet Newman was permitted to pass the companion hatch without interference.  In fact, the pair turned their backs to him.  I had, for an instant, the wild hope that Newman was mistaken in his fears.  But only for an instant.  Because, when Newman neared the forward end of the poop, the two tradesmen of the port watch suddenly popped up from the ladder and confronted him.  Sails carried a sawed-off shotgun in the crook of his arm, and Chips had a pair of handcuffs dangling in his grasp.

Newman stopped short.  Who would not, with the muzzle of a shotgun carelessly pointed at his breast?  No order to halt was needed.

Suddenly I saw through the skipper’s game.  Aye, and the devilish craft of it horrified me, and wrung a cry of warning from my throat.  For when Newman halted, Swope and Fitzgibbon turned towards him, and, while Swope continued to lounge against the hatch, the mate closed in behind Newman, and I saw a revolver in his hand.  At the same time, the man with the shotgun said something to Newman, something that angered the big fellow, I could tell from the way his shoulders humped and his body tensed.  Squarely behind him stood the mate.

Oh, it was a clever murder Yankee Swope had planned, a safe murder!  If Newman made any motion that could be interpreted as resisting arrest, and was shot in the back and killed—­why, the officer who shot him was performing his duty, and an unruly sailor had received his deserts!  That is the way the log would put it, and that is the way folks ashore would look at it.

The second mate saw through the scheme, also.  I am sure he had no previous knowledge of it, for an expression of surprise and consternation showed in his face, and he threw up his arm in a warning gesture.  But it was I who warned Newman.  I sang out lustily,

“Look out—­behind you!”

Newman looked behind him.  He threw back his head and laughed.  It amused him to see the mate standing there so sheepishly, with his pistol in his hand.  But I did not laugh, for Yankee Swope was staring at me, and there was fury in his face.  God’s truth, my hair stood up, and my toes crawled in their boots!  Oh, I knew I had let myself in for it with that warning shout.

But if Newman laughed, he did not venture to move.  He, too, saw through the skipper’s plan, and by his action promptly defeated it.  He laughed, but he also elevated his hands above his head to show his unarmed condition and his pacific intent.  Then, ignoring the mate, he spoke to Captain Swope.

“Am I to consider myself under arrest, Captain?”

Swope turned his face to the speaker, and glad I was to be free of his gaze.  He was a furious man that moment; I could see him biting his lips, and clenching and unclenching his hands from excess of anger.  Yet he answered Newman in a soft, even voice, and in the same half-bantering vein the big fellow had used.  He was a strong man, was Swope; he could control his temper when he thought it necessary.