nt, mind you. For
mutiny on a ship is a dreadful business, as I, a sailor, well knew. A
neck-stretching business! Yet there the thought was, and it stuck, and
pecked ever more insistently at my consciousness as the days passed.

Of course, I was wild with rage at Swope's attempt. And I was anxious
on Newman's account. You see, I looked upon him as my chum, and--had
he not saved my life, up there, on the yard? It is true, there were
none of the usual manifestations of foc'sle friendship between us; we
did not swap tobacco, and yarns, and oaths. Newman did not permit such
intimacy; always he was a man apart, a marked man. But, from the very
first, the man's personality dominated me, and, after that night on the
yardarm, I felt a passionate loyalty to him. He was not insensible to
my friendliness, I knew; he welcomed it, and found comfort in it.

If he had come to me that night, or afterwards, with a scheme for
taking the ship, I should have joined in straightway, no matter how
harebrained it might seem. But, of course, he did no such thing.
Indeed, he never mentioned the incident to me, after we left the deck
that night. For all of him, it might never have happened. And, you
may be sure, I did not intrude upon his reserve with queries, or
reminiscence.

Nor did the rest of the watch approach him. Rather did they avoid him,
as a dangerous person. With that thought of rebellion in my mind, I
watched my watchmates that night with more tolerance than my eyes had
yet shown them. I wanted to judge what stuff was in them.

The stiffs whispered together and eyed us furtively. I did not like
the stuff I saw in them. Rough, lawless, held obedient only by fear,
the scum of the beach--I did not like to imagine them sweeping along
the decks with restraint cast aside, and passions unleashed. The
squareheads were a different kind. Good men and sailors, here, but men
whose habit of life was submission. Yet, I saw they were gravely
disturbed by what had taken place on deck. No wonder. I knew their
minds. "Who is safe in this ship?" they thought. "Who, now, may go
aloft feeling secure he will reach the deck again, alive and unhurt?"
Those squareheads had proof of the mate's temper in the person of their
young landsman, lying broken in his bunk. Now, they had proof of the
skipper's temper.

My eyes met those of Boston and Blackie, eyeing me speculatively, and
the contact brought my musing to a sharp turn. What