. He needed assistance, 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
Cockney, who was standing alone by the forward end of the deck-house.
He croaked something at the man, an oath, I thought. Cockney waited
until he passed 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 Cockney. 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 Cockney as he could get. It was
Holy Joe who spoiled Cockney's knife-play. He was standing behind
Cockney, and, quick as Newman himself, he leaped forward and struck
Cockney'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--Cockney still bent in the
attitude of throwing, and the parson clutching his arm. I expected--we
all expected--he would shoot Cockney. Surely, this was his chance, if
he wanted trouble.

But he hardly glanced at the man. His eyes passed him by,