a moment, then he said:

"The burial of Nils is the weak point in my defense. If Swope offers
an indignity to the boy's body, even I will not be able to restrain
Nils' mates. Surely Swope has guessed that. I have planned to bury
the lad from the foredeck just as quickly as preparations can be made;
that is why Lindquist is at work on the forehatch. If Swope is
overlooking this chance, he must have something else up his sleeve."

He got to his feet and moved toward the door.

"Lindquist must be nearly finished. I will carry out my plan at any
hazard. Common decency demands we should not let the boy be cast into
the sea by the very men who murdered him."

At the door we were met by Olson, one of the squareheads, come to tell
Newman that all was ready for the burial. So we joined the crowd, and
Nils was put away, in the dead of night, by the light of one lantern
and many stars. The hum of the wind aloft and the purr and slap of the
waters against the bows were his requiem.

That scene left its mark upon the mind of every man who took part in or
witnessed it--and every foc'sle man save the helmsman saw Nils go over
the side. It was already late in the middle watch, but no man had yet
gone to his sleep; and, considering the habits of sailors and the
custom of the sea, this single fact describes how disturbed was the
common mind.

Yet the putting away of Nils was peaceful. We knew that the mate was
not alone upon the poop, that the men aft were alert and must know what
was going on forward; but, despite Newman's fears, there was no
interference from that quarter.

Nils' bier was a painter's stage, and four of the lad's shipmates held
the plank upon their shoulders, with the weighted feet of the shrouded
form pointed outboard. The rest of us, sailors and stiffs, stood about
with bared, bowed heads; aye, and most of us, I think, with wet eyes
and tight throats. It seemed a cruel and awful thing to see one of our
number disappear forever, and Holy Joe's words, spoken so softly and
clearly, were of a kind to squeeze the hearts of even bad men. That
parson had the gift of gab; he was a skilled orator and he could play
upon our heartstrings as a musician upon a harp.

Yet he did not preach at us, or even look at us. He wasted no words,
and the ceremony proceeded with the dispatch Newman desired. All Holy
Joe did was lift his face to the night and pray in simple words that
Nils might have a safe passage on t