e that
merciless day.

Captain Swope came to the break of the poop, lounged over the rail, and
looked us over. In his hand he held the ship's articles. He regarded
us with a sort of wicked satisfaction, seeming to draw delight from the
sight of our huddled, miserable forms. Without saying a word, he
gloated over us, over the puffed face of the Cockney, over the
expression of desperate horror in the face of the red-shirted man, over
the abject figure of the little squarehead, who had been going about
all afternoon sobbing, with his hand pressed to his side, and whose
face was even now twisted with a pain to which he feared to give voice.
Aye, Swope stared down at us, licking his chops, so to speak, at the
sight of our suffering; and we glared back at him, hating and afraid.

Then the lady appeared at the poop rail, some paces distant from the
Old Man. It was heartening to turn one's eyes from the Old Man's
wicked, sneering face to the face of the lady. There was sorrow in
that brooding look she gave us, and pity, and understanding. She was
used to looking upon the man-made misery of men, you felt, and skilled
in softening it. There was a stir in our ranks as we met her gaze, a
half audible murmur ran down the line, and the slackest of us
straightened our shoulders a trifle. The Old Man sensed the sudden
cheer amongst us, and, I think, sensed its cause, for without glancing
at the lady, he drawled an order to the mate, standing just below him.

"Well, Mister Fitz, start the ball rolling--your first say."

The mate allowed his fierce, pig eyes to rove over us, and to my secret
delight he passed me by. "Where's the nigger?" he said, referring to
the mulatto, who was at the wheel. "The wheel? Well, he's my meat."

So the watch choosing began. Lynch promptly chose me, as he had
promised he would, and I stepped over to the starboard deck.
Fitzgibbon chose the Cockney, Lynch picked a squarehead--so the
alternate choosing went, the mates' skilled eyes first selecting all
those who showed in their appearance some evidence of sailorly
experience.

"You!" said Fitzgibbon, indicating the red-shirted man, and motioning
him over to the port side of the deck.

The red-shirted man, whose agitated face I had been covertly watching,
instead of obeying the mate, stepped out of line and appealed to Swope.
"Captain, may I speak to you now?" he asked, in a shrill, excited voice.

"_Eh_, what's this?" exclaimed Swope, gazi