“Oh, it’s all right,” he growled, and began to saw at the rope in his hand, while the Greek watched him with his fixed, bony smile.

“No,” said the latter suddenly.  “Dat-a not sharp—­no!  Look-a ’ere; you see dis?”

He drew his own knife, and showed it pointing towards Conroy in a damp, swarthy hand, whose knuckles bulged above the haft.  His rough, spatulate thumb rasped along it, drawing from it the crepitation that proves an acute edge.

“Carve him like-a da pork,” he said, in his stage-conspirator’s whisper.  “And da point—­now, see!”

He glanced over his shoulder to be sure that none overlooked them; then, with no more than a jerk of his hand beside his hip, threw the keen blade toward the wooden door of the bo’sun’s locker.  It traveled through the air swiftly and stuck, quivering on its thin point, in the stout teak.  The Greek turned his smile again for a moment on Conroy before he strode across and recovered it.

“You take ’im,” he whispered.  “Better dan your little knife—­yais.”

By the mere urgency of his proffering it the exchange was made, and Conroy found himself with a knife in his hand that fell through the strands of the manila line as though they had been butter, an instrument made and perfected for a murder.

“Yes, but look here——­” he began, in alarm.

The broad, mirthless smile was turned on him.

“Just like-a da pork,” purred the Greek, and nodded assuringly before he turned to go aft.

The bull-roar of the mate, who was awaiting his return with the rope-yarns, roused Conroy from a scared reverie over the knife.  He started; the mate was bustling furiously forward in search of him, full of uproar and anger.

“Dam’ lazy schwein, you goin’ to schleep dere?  You vant me to come an’ fetch you??  You vant anodder schmack on de maul to keep you avake—­yes?”

He stamped into view round the forward house, while Conroy stood, convicted of idleness by the rope in his hand only half cut through.  At the same moment a population of faces came into being behind him.  A man who had been aloft shuffled down to the rail; a couple of others came into view on the deck; on top of the house, old Slade kneeled to see under the break of the forecastle head.  It seemed as though a skeptical audience had suddenly been created out of his boast of the morning, every face threatening him with that shame which vanity will die rather than endure.  In a panic of his faculties he took one step toward the mate.

“Hey?” The mate halted in his stride, with sheer amazement written on his face.  “You vant yer head knocked off—­yes?”

“No, I don’t,” said Conroy, out of a dry mouth.

According to the usage of ships, even that was defiance and a challenge.

He had forgotten the revolver with which the mate was credited; he had forgotten everything but the fact that eyes were on him.  Even the knife in his hand passed from his mind; he was a mere tingling pretence at fortitude, expending every force to maintain his pose.