The second reason was the stronger.

Singleton, the mate, had become a tractable and almost amiable prisoner.  Like Turner, he was ugly only when he was drinking, and there was not even enough liquor on the Ella to revive poor Burns.  He spent his days devising, with bits of wire, a ring puzzle that he intended should make his fortune.  And I believe he contrived, finally, a clever enough bit of foolery.  He was anxious to talk, and complained bitterly of loneliness, using every excuse to hold Tom, the cook, when he carried him his meals.  He had asked for a Bible, too, and read it now and then.

The morning of Bums’s injury, I visited Singleton.

The new outrage, coming at a time when they were slowly recovering confidence, had turned the men surly.  The loss of the axe, the handle of which I had told them would, under skillful eyes, reveal the murderer as accurately as a photograph, was a serious blow.  Again arose the specter of the innocent suffering for the guilty.  They went doggedly about their work, and wherever they gathered there was muttered talk of the white figure.  There was grumbling, too, over their lack of weapons for defense.

The cook was a ringleader of the malcontents.  Certain utensils were allowed him; but he was compelled at night to lock them in the galley, after either Burns’s inspection or mine, and to turn over the key to one of us.

On the morning after the attack, therefore, Tom, carrying Singleton’s breakfast to him, told him at length what had occurred in the night, and dilated on his lack of self-defense should an attack be directed toward him.

Singleton promptly offered to make him, out of wire, a key to the galley door, so that he could get what he wanted from it.  The cook was to take an impression of the lock.  In exchange, Tom was to fetch him, from a hiding place which Singleton designated in the forward house, a bottle of whiskey.

The cook was a shrewd mulatto, and he let Singleton make the key.  It was after ten that morning when he brought it to me.  I was trying to get the details of his injury from Burns, at the time, in the tent.

“I didn’t see or hear anything, Leslie,” Burns said feebly.  “I don’t even remember being hit.  I felt there was some one behind me.  That was all.”

“There had been nothing suspicious earlier in the night?”

He lay thinking.  He was still somewhat confused.

“No—­I think not.  Or—­yes, I thought once I saw some one standing by the mainmast—­behind it.  It wasn’t.”

“How long was Mrs. Johns on deck?”

“Not long.”

“Did she ask you to do something for her?”

Pale as he was, he colored; but he eyed me honestly.

“Yes.  Don’t ask me any more, Leslie.  It had nothing to do with this.”

“What did she ask you to do?” I persisted remorselessly.

“I don’t want to talk; my head aches.”