ellow
is lying, Captain!"

"That will do, Mister Lynch," exclaimed Swope. "I did not ask your
opinion in this matter. I would suggest, sir, that it is your watch on
deck, and the ship may need your attention."

"Very good, sir," retorted Lynch. "But I wish to tell you this,
Captain--I know this man is innocent of these charges, and I will not
be a party to your action against him."

"Have a care, sir; I am captain of this vessel," cried Swope.

"I recognize your authority, but that does not alter my stand in this
case," said Lynch.

"That will do, sir; go on deck!" was the captain's command.

I was at the wheel, and the ship was on her course, when the second
mate appeared. Oh, but he was in a towering rage! He stamped the deck
like a full watch. He sang out to me, "Damn your eye, man, watch your
wheel; the wake is like a snake's track!" I answered meekly, "Yes,
sir," and held her nose true. He looked at me sharply, and I knew that
he guessed what I had been up to. But he said nothing more; instead,
he stormed for'ard, and worked out his rage among the stiffs.

I overheard no more of the proceedings in the cabin, for I did not dare
leave the wheel while Mister Lynch was on deck. But I was easier in my
mind concerning Newman's fate, for what I had overheard convinced me
the big fellow stood in no immediate danger of his life. That Swope
meant to kill, I had not the least doubt--Newman, himself, said as
much--but the time was not ripe for that act.

So I occupied myself with thoughts about the traitor in the crew. At
that moment Captain Swope was not the only man on board with murder in
his heart! My fingers pressed the spokes as though they had hold of
the Cockney's throat.

I cursed myself for a stupid fool not to have known Cockney was the
spy. I should have known. He was that sort, a bully and a boot-licker
by turns. In the foc'sle he was more violent than any other in his
denunciation of the buckos; on deck he cringed before them. He had
always fawned upon Newman, but I suspected he hated my friend, because
of what happened in the Knitting Swede's. But I had not suspected him
of treachery to his foc'sle mates, because he was an old sailor and a
good one, and there were plenty of stiffs on board more fitted, I
thought, for spy's work. But Cockney was the man. I could not mistake
his voice for another's. He was even now down below bearing false
witness against my friend.

I watched the