during the next week’s run we made a deal of westing, passing to the southward of the azores and getting well into the western ocean. the northeast trade was picked up, and, as it was well to the eastward, it enabled us to carry on stun’sails fore and aft.

we were better acquainted in the fo’castle now, and i had learned to like several men of my watch. bill was a warm friend. martin proved a very entertaining fellow, but was absolutely without principle. anderson was quiet and attended to his duties like the average swede, being a good sailor and an excellent hand for sewing canvas and making chafing-gear. he went by the name of goldy in the forecastle on account of the colour of his hair, which was bushy and covered his face.

in the other watch was jones, the giant welshman, who was one of the best men that ever stood 73upon a ship’s deck. he was as strong as a whale and as kind-hearted as a girl.

but the little fellow called tim, who was in my watch, was the man i chummed with. he was not much to look at, being small, ugly, red-headed, and freckled. he was an american, however, and there was that something about him that drew me to him as the magnet draws iron. he had been pressed into the british navy before the war, and had served his time. when the fighting was over and he received his discharge, he shipped in an east-indiaman, and made two voyages around the world. why he never returned to his home in the states was the cause of some speculation on my part, but, as he never mentioned his people, i refrained from trespassing. it is bad form for a sailor to inquire too closely into his shipmate’s past.

tim was so insignificant looking among those picked men that i took little or no notice of him until one night when it was blowing a stiff gale and the barque was staggering along under topsails through an ugly cross-sea that made her old timbers groan with the wrench.

i had occasion to go to the forecastle head, and, while i stood there, leaning over the life-line which did duty for a rail, i became absorbed for a few minutes watching the fine phosphorescent display in the bow wave. the night was very dark, and 74the deep, booming note of the taut fabric above and the rushing sound below drowned all minor noises.

suddenly i heard my name called loudly, and something soft struck me in the back. i turned and saw no one, but, while i searched the darkness with my eyes, the door of the forward cabin opened, and i saw for an instant the tall, erect form of watkins, the steward, against the light inside. i continued to look over the side until a hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the little man tim, who was really hardly more than a boy, slewed me around none too gently.

“’tain’t healthy,” said he, “to be near the side o’ nights in a ship where things is queer. you came nearer your end a minute ago than you ever will again but once,” and he nodded aft.

“the steward?” i asked.

he nodded again, and looked so serious that my first inclination to laugh died away at once. “he was within two fathoms of you when i hailed, and his knife was as long as that,” and he stuck forth his arm with his left hand placed midway to the shoulder.

“so that’s his game, is it?” i said. “i’ll keep an eye on him hereafter. the whole outfit aft have something queer about them. i’m obliged to you 75for the warning. what was it that struck me in the back?”

“pair o’ my rolled-up socks,--the only ones i’ve got, too,--an’ if they’re gone overboard, i’ll have to go barefooted, for i can’t abide shoes without socks. them ratlines do cut the bare feet of a feller most uncommon though, an’ i’ll have a job aloft in the morning sending down them t’gallantstun’sail-booms.”

he searched about the forecastle deck for some minutes in the darkness, but failed to find them. the night being warm, we remained on deck, as the stiff wind was invigorating and the forecastle somewhat close. finally we sat upon the weather side of the windlass and leaned against it. there was a man on lookout forward, but we were pretty well out of the track of ships, and the only person liable to disturb us was the third mate, who might come forward to trim head-sail. the starboard watch were grouped upon the main-hatch, lounging and resting, and hawkson walked fore and aft on the poop, his tall form showing dimly now and then as he passed the cabin skylights where the light from within flared up. we snuggled down comfortably to sleep, but the snore of the gale through the rigging and under the forestaysail kept us wakeful. i watched tim alongside of me, and saw he was still chewing his tobacco.

76“how did you come to get into the hooker without clothes?” i asked, thinking he was tricked like myself.

“signed all right. there’s money in her, if what i believe is correct. she’ll pay a feller like me. i’ve got no ties ashore. but they’re a tough crowd. that feller, sir john hicks,--you’ve heard of him, hey?”

“never did. what’s he done?” i asked.

“he ain’t done nothin’ in particular, but he’s the wildest of the family. got plenty o’ money, an’ that lord george renshaw, the old un,--well, say, heywood, you’ve heard how he got chased out o’ london?”

i had heard nothing, being an american.

“i forgot,” he went on. “you see, i’m mighty nigh an englishman,” and he spoke sadly and sighed, heaving his tobacco away.

“why do you stick to english ships after they stuck you for three years? i should think you’d drop them by this time,” i said.

he turned upon me savagely, his eyes shining and his face drawn.

“why do i?” he cried, hoarsely, his voice sounding above the snore overhead. “why do i? what business is it of yours why i do it? why would any man do the thing i’ve done--but to forget--not the british navy, good god, no. it was 77bad enough, but you can forget it easy enough, and to forget--”

“a woman?” i asked, boldly.

“what else,” he said, almost softly. “i was a decent man once, heywood, and not an outlaw--what you will be if you stay aboard here. yes, i was married. had as good girl as ever breathed. but i was poor. what crime can a feller commit equal to poverty, hey? you know the old, old yarn. i go to sea as mate of an indiaman, and the owner saw the beauty of that angel. do i blame her? not a bit. what chance would a poor girl left alone for a few months have with a rich young feller like him,--an’ him a rich ship-owner standin’ for everything that’s good to the mind of a poor girl. she was lost if he went unchecked, an’ who would check the honourable gentleman? not her friends. oh, no! he took her out on a voyage with him--an’ left her without a cent--an’ now i’ll forget.”

“what’s against the ship?” i asked.

he seemed not to hear and was gazing aft, his head thrown back against the windlass barrel. i repeated the question.

“nothing i know of. but you can rest easy, heywood, they are up to some expedition that won’t bear the light. if you take a fool’s advice, you’ll make the jump at nassau.”

78“are you going there?” i asked.

“i don’t say. mebbe i will, an’ mebbe no. but you better.”

“i’m glad you take such an interest in my future,” i said, rather shortly.

he turned full upon me, and i saw his eyes shine in the light. “look here, heywood, i don’t deserve that. you’ve got a bad memory. i may have been a fool to let off about myself. i reckon i was, but i’ve liked you, and there’s not a damn thing aboard here i ever could like except you. i say again, it’ll be best for you if you jump her at nassau.”

“well,” i said, “tim, i’m pretty mean to say you no after saving me from that watkins’s carver, though i reckon i could take care of the old duffer even if he had forty knives. i didn’t mean to rough you, for it’s with you whether i go or not. i’d stay aboard to be with you, and that’s saying a bit more than i’ve said to any man for some time.”

he gazed steadily at me, and i thought his eyes had a wistful look. then he spoke low in a voice i could hardly hear.

“i’m glad you like me, heywood. maybe we’ll go together. yes, we might go together. afterward--afterward--you won’t mind a feller being, so to say, a bit outside the law. there’ll be a line for my neck, you know, if--well, no matter. if 79you stay in the ship, there’ll be one for all hands, if there’s any faith to be placed in signs.”

then we remained silent for a long time. i thought of watkins and his dastardly attempt upon me, and wondered if tim was not a bit off in his mind. but when i remembered the lost socks, i knew he was not mistaken, for a sailor would hesitate a long time before throwing his last pair away. the danger must have been imminent. it was a queer ship. that was certain. half her crew had been shipped by fraud, and her alleged owners were not above reproach. as to her captain, there was nothing he was not capable of, provided it was wrong, in spite of his years and mask-like face, withered and bare as a sun-scorched lemon. we must have been asleep when the watch was called, for i remember nothing of the bells, and suddenly found myself looking into the rising sun, which shone with unusual vigour over a windy sea.

tim was just in the act of going below as i looked at the forecastle scuttle. his face seemed pale and drawn, but he smiled as he dived down the companion-way.

“you can get those gun-covers laced fast before we start washing down decks,” said mr. gull, coming to the edge of the forecastle, and i was soon on the main-deck with my trousers up to my knees, enjoying the rushing warm sea water the watch 80were flinging along the gangway, following it aft with squeegee and swab until the planks were spotless.

how refreshing is that breeze of the early day at sea! the lines, all damp with the salt dew of the night, hum a note of gladness to welcome the rising disc of light. the brisk sea wind freshens, wrinkling the broad ridges rushing before it, and brushing their white crests into a wide spread of glittering jewels that flash, sparkle, and hiss in the growing light. the air braces the tired body, and the appetite grows keen. the men of the morning watch take on new life, and all eyes begin to cast looks at the galley stovepipe, watching for the increasing volume of smoke outpouring that tells of the preparation of the morning meal.