unk where lay huddled a formless heap of
rags. This heap of rags, yanked bodily out of bed, would resolve
itself into a limp and drunken man. Then Mister Lynch would commence
to eject life into the sodden lump, working scientifically and
dispassionately, and bellowing the while ferocious oaths in the
victim's ear.

"Out on deck with you!" he would cry, shaking the limp bundle much as a
dog would shake a rat. A sharp clout on either jaw would elicit a
profane protest from the patient. The toe of his heavy boot, sharply
applied where it would do the most good, would produce further
evidences of life. Then Lynch would take firm grasp of the scruff of
the neck and seat of the breeches, and hurl the resurrected one through
the door onto the deck, and out of range of my vision. A waspish voice
streaming blistering oaths proved that Mister Fitzgibbon was welcoming
each as he emerged into daylight. Another voice, melodiously
penetrating the uproar, proved another man was watching the crew turn
to. I recognized the silky, musical voice of Yankee Swope. "Stir them
up, Mister! Make them jump! My ship is no hotel!" is what it said.

The second mate boosted the starboard foc'sle's last occupant
deckwards; then he paused a moment for a breathing spell. Next, his
roving eye rested upon my face blinking down at him from the top of the
wall.

"Oh, ho--so you have come to life, have you!" he addressed me. "The
Swede said you would be dead until afternoon!"

He stepped through the connecting door, into my side of the foc'sle,
and looked about. I leaped down from the upper bunk and stood before
him, feeling rather sheepish at having been discovered spying.

"Where is that big jasper who came aboard with you?" he suddenly
demanded of me.

"Why;--there!" I replied promptly, indicating the bunk opposite the one
in which I had slept.

Then, I became aware that Newman was not in that bunk; and a rapid
survey of the foc'sle showed he was not in any bunk. He was gone,
though his sea-bag was still lying on the floor. The bunk I thought he
was in contained an occupant of very different aspect from my grim
companion of the night before.

A short, spare man of some thirty years, wearing an old red flannel
shirt, was stretched out upon the bare bunk-boards. Lynch and I
contemplated him in silence for a moment.

He was no beachcomber or sailor, one could tell that at a glance. His
skin had no tan upon it. It was white and