"Boston said so."

"Dat man's too free wif his lip. Ah don't tell him Ah knows who's the spy; Ah tells him Ah knows dey is one."

I waited patiently, for n.i.g.g.e.r's temper would not bear pressing. He reversed his stone, spat upon it, and resumed his monotonous whetting, then, after looking around to make sure he could not be overheard, he explained what he did know.

"Night befoh last Ah was hangin' 'round aft----"

"What?" I cried, surprised. "Hanging around aft--what for?"

"Dat's my business," he told me, curtly. Then, after a moment, he added, "But Ah don't care if yoh know, because Ah knows yoh ain't no snitch. Ah was hangin' 'round waitin' to meet Mistah Mate when he ain't got them othah two debbils wif him. Ah was waitin' 'round to meet dat man alone. And he come to de break ob de p.o.o.p wif de Old Man, and de Old Man say, 'Ah got a good man watchin' every move he makes; he can't turn around in de foc'sle wifout me knowin' it. We'll be wahned befoh it happens.' Dat's what de Old Man say to Mistah Mate. And Ah knows he mus' be talkin' about de big fellow, and so Ah tells Boston about it."

"But didn't you hear any names mentioned?" I asked him.

"Dat's all Ah hears," he answered. "Den dey went away."

I was disappointed. The n.i.g.g.e.r's news amounted to just nothing; we already knew that a spy was watching Newman. But indeed this fact seemed not so threatening as it had a few hours before. Newman's careless contempt of the spy had made me contemptuous, too. And, indeed, what could a spy report against the big man that could injure him? Newman was openly working for peace, counseling obedience. His actions invited scrutiny.

I voiced this thought to my companion.

"Well, anyway, a spy can't hurt Newman. He is doing nothing underhand, or wrong. He's keeping peace in this ship."

n.i.g.g.e.r gave a queer little hoot of derision. "Does Ah look like peace?" he said. "Dis am a debbil-ship; Ah tells yoh dey can't be no peace in dis ship nohow."

I gestured towards the forehatch. A dozen men sat upon it, quietly smoking and gossiping. "The squally weather is past," I said. "Those lads don't want trouble. A few hours ago they were all for fight--but now they've settled down. And don't you try to start trouble! The big fellow wants peace, the lady wants peace, we must help them to keep peace. Don't you want to help the lady and the big fellow?"

"De lady been awful good to me," said n.i.g.g.e.r, in almost a whisper. "Ah gone crazy long ago if it ain't foh de lady." He stopped his whetting and tried the edge of the blade with his thumb; then, suddenly, he reached out and clutched my wrist, and continued in a voice so charged with pain and grief, that I was appalled.

"Ah'd do mos' anything foh de lady, but, Shreve, it ain't foh me, and it ain't foh any of us forward to say what's goin' to happen in dis ship. Ah ain't no sea-lawyer; man and boy Ah've gone to sea twenty year, and Ah ain't nebber made no trouble in no ship, no suh. But, oh mah Lawd, yoh knows what all's happened to me in dis ship! Dey won't let me be a man. 'Yoh n.i.g.g.ah, yoh black beast!' Dat's what dey calls me, and dat's what dey makes me! Ah wants peace, yoh wants peace--but does dey want peace? No, suh! Yoh say de ship peaceful now? Dis am a debbil-ship, and dey's a king debbil aft! And dey's a shark overside, and he wasn't waitin' foh what jus' went into the water, no, suh! Yoh ebber sail out East? Yoh ebber see de quiet befoh a typhoon, so quiet seems like yoh can't breathe? Dat's de kind ob peace dat's on de _Golden Bough_. Ah don' want to make no trouble no time, but, oh mah Lawd, when Ah does mah work right an' gets hazed foh it, when dat mate makes a beast out ob me--does yoh think Ah stand dat fohebber?"

I had no answer of good cheer. What could I say? The man's wrongs were too bitter, his hurts too constant, to be glossed over or soothed by any words I could think of. For I knew he still had weeks of brutal mistreatment ahead of him. This n.i.g.g.e.r was a man who would not, perhaps could not, cringe and whine--and so the mate was "breaking" him.

But after all n.i.g.g.e.r gave me the promise I was after. "Ah nebber talks trouble. Ah nebber wants trouble, and Ah nebber stirs up no trouble."

CHAPTER XV

The day following Nils' death was the most peaceful day we had had since leaving port.

There was less cursing and driving from the men aft, and less wrangling among ourselves. But it was a strange peace. An air of suspense lay upon the ship; we went around on tiptoe, so to speak. The quiet before the typhoon--aye, n.i.g.g.e.r's phrase just about described it. We went around telling each other that the trouble had blown over, and nothing was going to happen, and all the time we were watching and waiting for something--we didn't know just what--to happen.

During the morning, Mister Fitzgibbon and his bullies came swaggering forward and into the port foc'sle. Now that was a moment that very nearly saw the calm broken; for an instant I was sure there would be a grand blow-up. For the mate was after Nils' belongings, his sea-chest.

Even though it was the custom to take a dead man's gear aft, the squareheads resented the removal of Nils' effects. Especially did they resent Fitzgibbon's part in the removal. The lads in my watch crowded the door connecting the rooms, and the port watch men collected on deck and glowered in at the proceedings.

The muttered curses grew in volume. Oh, it looked like trouble, right enough---for just a moment. Now that I was enlightened as to the skipper's game, I could see what the mate was up to. He, who was largely responsible for Nils' death, had come forward upon this errand because he knew--or Swope knew--his presence would enrage Nils' mates.

The Chinese steward, or the tradesmen alone, could have taken Nils'

gear without raising a murmur from the squareheads, but quite naturally they would resent Fitzgibbon's pawing over the poor lad's treasures.

But Newman took the sting out of the mate's visit, Newman and Holy Joe, working separately, but with a common end in view. Oh, it was rich--but you must know the foc'sle mind to understand how rich we thought it was. It was nothing subtle, nothing above our heads.

Newman made us laugh, at the mate's expense, and--presto!--impending tragedy was turned into farce.

Fitzgibbon, himself, was overhauling Nils' gear. The tradesmen stood idle and watchful, one near either door of the foc'sle. Out on deck, Holy Joe was busy; we could hear him urging his crowd to be quiet and peaceful. Newman pushed through our crowd until he was fairly into the port foc'sle, and there he stood, filling the doorway, and effectually blocking any attempt on the part of those behind him to rush the room.

Well, Newman looked down at the mate, and he commenced to chuckle very softly to himself. After a moment we began to chuckle too, every man-jack of us. We didn't laugh out loud--not one of us, except Newman, who had the nerve to laugh out loud at Blackjack Fitzgibbon--but, hidden behind the big fellow's back, we chuckled and snickered readily enough. And the b.u.t.t of the joke was the mate, himself.

It was the mate's behavior. Anybody could see with half an eye that the fellow was looking for trouble. He expected trouble, and it made him nervous. He was determined he would be ready for it. So he kept one hand in his coat pocket, where he carried his gun, and tried with the other hand to cast adrift the lashings that held the chest to the bunk posts. It was a two-hand job, and he made slow work of it. But he wouldn't call one of his tradesmen to help him--that would have left a door unguarded, you see. Nor could he fix his attention upon the job; he kept twisting his ugly face this way and that way until his head looked as if it were on a pivot.

If Newman hadn't pointed it out, I doubt if any of us would have seen the humor of the scene. But Newman's chuckle forced it upon us.

Mister Fitzgibbon did look ridiculous--fumbling blindly with the ropes, and at the same time trying to keep both ends of the foc'sle in sight at once.

"I'll lend you one of my hands, Mister," said Newman, suddenly.

The mate glanced at him, startled, but before he could open his mouth, Newman stepped past the tradesman and bent over one end of the chest.

"It's neatly wrapped; the lad would have been a good sailorman, Mister," he remarked as he undid the lashing.

The mate realized he was at a disadvantage. He glared vindictively at the big fellow, and snarled an oath in reply. Then he drew a knife, and committed the lubberly act of cutting through the lashing at his end of the chest. Newman had finished undoing the rope at his end, and now he stepped back into the doorway.

I've never been sure, but I think Newman did it purposely. The rope's end was spliced about the handle of the chest, and when he cast the rope loose, it trailed upon the floor. Newman left the bight turned about the bunk-post, and in such fashion that it would tighten into a clove-hitch.

Now that it was a case of our laughing at him, the mate was eager to get out of the foc'sle with as little loss of dignity as possible. He started to walk away, dragging Nils' chest after him. The clove-hitch checked him. He jerked, with all his strength, and his strength was enormous--there was a crack like a pistol shot as the bunk-post snapped, the chest leaped like a live thing at the man, and Fitzgibbon's heels flew out from under him. He landed upon his back, and the chest landed upon his stomach; and the wind went out of him with an explosive _oof_!

Oh, it was rich. Aye, it was the kind of joke the foc'sle could appreciate. We did appreciate it. We did not quite dare roar our laughter, but our chuckles would have shaken windows ash.o.r.e. Even the tradesmen grinned--behind their hands--as they lifted the chest from off their boss, and him to his feet. He needed a.s.sistance, too; he had no wind for curses, and bent double nursing the injured spot while he grunted at the tradesmen to pick up the chest and carry it aft. He paid no attention to the rest of us, but as he hobbled out of the foc'sle in the wake of the others, he gave Newman a look of such malignant hatred that we all knew just where he placed the blame for the episode.

It did not bother Newman, that look. He was on deck at the mate's heels. Bravado, I thought at first, and I was close behind Newman, for I wanted to have a hand in any further fun. He followed the mate aft, at a respectful distance. Suddenly, I understood his action, for I saw how warily he was watching the hands, the port watch squareheads, particularly, who were bunched about the foredeck. Newman wasn't following the mate to make sport for us; he was seeing that the mate, and the tradesmen, got aft without trouble. He was seeing to it that no one on deck gave the bucko the excuse to start trouble that had been denied him in the foc'sle. Aye, Newman was a wise lad; he would not be caught napping.

Yet, despite his care, he nearly lost. Mister Fitzgibbon brushed past c.o.c.kney, who was standing alone by the forward end of the deck-house.

He croaked something at the man, an oath, I thought. c.o.c.kney waited until he pa.s.sed by, and then suddenly whipped out his knife and drew back his arm to throw it at the mate's back.

Newman might possibly have reached c.o.c.kney. But he did not try.

Instead, he leaped in the other direction, a cat-like bound that took him over to the rail, as far away from c.o.c.kney as he could get. It was Holy Joe who spoiled c.o.c.kney's knife-play. He was standing behind c.o.c.kney, and, quick as Newman himself, he leaped forward and struck c.o.c.kney's arm. It spoiled the aim. The knife did not go in the mate's direction at all; it went flashing across the deck, and stuck quivering in the rail.

"You fool!" cried Holy Joe.

The mate wheeled about at that. Aye, and he had his pistol half out of his pocket as he turned. We could see by his face that he understood what had happened; indeed, he would have been blind not to have been able to read the meaning of the scene--c.o.c.kney still bent in the att.i.tude of throwing, and the parson clutching his arm. I expected--we all expected--he would shoot c.o.c.kney. Surely, this was his chance, if he wanted trouble.

But he hardly glanced at the man. His eyes pa.s.sed him by, and darted about until they spotted Newman lounging over there by the rail, with his hands in his pockets. I guess it was an unpleasant surprise to find Newman over there, just opposite to where he expected to find him.

The knife was sticking in the rail close by Newman's shoulder; there could be no connecting it and Newman--indeed, Newman's own knife was in plain view, in its sheath.

Newman shook his head. "Not this time, Mister," says he.

The mate was stumped, and enraged. His face grew actually purple with his choked rage, as he glared at Newman. But he did not draw the gun free of his pocket; he had no excuse to offer Newman violence, and he did not deign to notice c.o.c.kney. He did not even seem to notice the naked knife. Slowly his hand opened, and the b.u.t.t of the weapon dropped back into his pocket. Then he turned, and went aft.

I breathed again. So, I guess, did the others. When Fitzgibbon was beyond ear-shot, c.o.c.kney began to d.a.m.n Holy Joe for spoiling his aim.

But he didn't get very far with his tirade before Newman had him shouldered against the wall of the deck-house.

c.o.c.kney changed his tune then, and mighty quick. For Newman looked as he had looked that day in the Knitting Swede's; aye, there was death in his face.