“On de gratings,” he was told.  And the Swede who fetched the coffee added, “Sails is sowin’ him up now already.”

“We’ll see the last of him to-day,” said Slade.  “He won’t kick nobody again!”

There was a mutter of agreement, and eyes turned on Conroy again.  Slade smiled slowly.

“Yes, he keeck once too many times,” said the Greek.

The shaggy young Swede wagged his head.  “He t’ink it was safe to kick Conroy, but it aindt,” he observed profoundly.  “No, it aindt safe.”

“He got vat he asked for. . . .  Didn’t know vat he go up againdst . . .  No, it aindt—­it aindt safe. . .  Maybe vi’sh he aindt so handy mit his feet now.”

They were all talking; their mixed words came to Conroy in broken sentences.  He stared at them a little wildly, realizing the fact that they were admiring him, praising him, and afraid of him.  The blood rose in his face hotly.

“You fellers talk,” he began, and was disconcerted at the manner in which they all fell silent to hear him—­“you talk as if I’d killed him.”

“Well! . . .  Ach was!”

He faced their smiles, their conciliatory gestures, with a frown.

“You better stop it,” he said.  “He fell—­see?  He fell an’ stove his head in.  An’ any feller that says he didn’t——­”

His regard traveled from face to face, giving force to his challenge.

“Ve aindt goin’ to say nodings!” they assured him mildly.  “You don’t need to be scared of us, Conroy.”

“I’m not scared,” he said, with meaning.  “But look out, that’s all.”

When breakfast was over, it was his turn to sweep up.  But there was almost a struggle for the broom and the privilege of saving him that trouble.  It comforted him and restored him; it would have been even better but for the presence of Slade, sitting aloft in his bunk, smiling over his pipe with malicious understanding.

The Villingen was still under reefed upper topsails, walking into the seas on a taut bowline, with water coming aboard freely.  There was little for the watch to do save those trivial jobs which never fail on a ship.  Conroy and some of the others were set to scrubbing teak on the poop, and he had a view of the sail-maker at his work on the gratings under the break of the poop, stitching on his knees to make the mate presentable for his last passage.  The sailmaker was a bearded Finn, with a heavy, darkling face and the secret eyes of a faun.  He bent over his task, and in his attitude and the slow rhythm of his moving hand there was a suggestion of ceremonial, of an act mysterious and ritual.

Half-way through the morning, Conroy was sent for to the cabin, there to tell his tale anew, to see it taken down, and to sign it.  The captain even asked him if he felt better.

“Thank you, sir,” replied Conroy.  “It was a shock, findin’ him dead like that.”

“Yes, yes,” agreed the captain.  “I can understand—­a great shock.  Yes!”