I watched the deck closely, and pretty soon I saw Cockney go forward.  So I knew that the farcical examination of Newman was ended, and that he was probably locked up with the rats in the lazaret.  I promised myself I would have a heart-to-heart talk with Cockney just as soon as eight bells released me from the wheel.

But when eight bells did go, I had something else to think about.  Indeed, yes!  My own skin, no less.

All hands were mustered aft when the port watch came on deck.  This was unusual, a break in routine, for it was not customary to call the crew aft at the close of the day watches.  Moreover, the men were herded aft by the tradesmen, who were armed.  Mister Lynch came up on the poop, and was obviously taking no part in the proceedings.  Oh, it was the end of the easy times, and all hands knew it.

When the men were collected by the main mast, the little parson was plucked out of the crowd and ushered into the cabin, where the skipper and the mate awaited him.  Aye, that was the reason for the muster; Holy Joe must be punished for his defiance of Fitzgibbon.  Five minutes after he entered the cabin, he was thrown out upon the deck, bruised, bleeding and unconscious, and his mates were told to pick him up and carry him forward.

The Old Man and the mate appeared on the poop immediately afterwards.  The instant I clapped eyes upon Swope, I knew that my turn was next.  I saw it in his eyes, in his face and carriage.  He looked and behaved just as he had that day he attacked Nils.  He looked at me with a bright, cruel glare; he smiled, and licked his lips with his tongue.  Oh, I was frightened; worse, I felt sick and weak.  And I felt anger, too; aye, there was rising in me a wild and murderous rage, which, if I let it go, would, I knew, master both fear and caution.  I kept repeating to myself during the few minutes of grace allowed me, “I must not lose my temper, I must not lose my temper.”  For if I did lose my temper, and defy my masters with fist and tongue, I knew I should be beaten until I was physically disabled, perhaps fatally disabled.  And then who would hold the crew in check, who would labor to save Newman?

The Cockney came aft to relieve the wheel.  There was a smirk on his face, and a swagger in his walk, as he came along the lee side of the poop.  I noticed him leer confidentially at the mate, as he passed that worthy.  That Cockney thought himself a very clever fellow, no doubt, having been taken into the confidence of the ship’s masters, having been assigned to do their secret dirty work.  It was all I could do to keep from flying at his throat, when he came within reach of my arms.

He murmured some hypocritical words as he stepped into my place.  He was a good dissembler.

“My heye, but poor ‘Oly Joe caught it,” says he.  “They bloomin’ near skinned ’im alive.  They ’arve Newman in the lazaret.  Blimme, Shreve, we got to do somethink abaht it!”