soft. Obviously, he was no
inhabitant of the underworld of forecastles and waterside groggeries.
His white face looked intelligent and forceful even in unconsciousness.

In some way, the man had come by a wicked blow upon the head. It was
the cause, I suspected, of his swoon, and stertorous breathing. Dried
blood was plastered on the boards about his head, and his thick, dark
hair was clotted and matted with the flow from his wound.

Lynch leaned over, and opened one of the fellow's loosely clenched
hands. It was as white and soft as a lady's hand.

"This jasper is no bum--or sailor!" declared Lynch. "That damn Swede's
been up to some o' his tricks. Well--we'll make a sailor of him before
we fetch China Sea, I reckon!" He straightened, and turned on me with
another demand for Newman. "Where did you say that big jasper was?"

I shrugged my shoulders helplessly. I could have sworn Newman had
turned into that bunk; and I told him so.

Lynch snorted. "Didn't have the guts to face the music, I reckon, and
cleared out! Well, if he tried to swim for it, I'll bet he's feeding
fishes now!" His eyes roved around the room. Several of the bunks
were occupied by nondescript figures, but Newman's huge bulk did not
appear. "Damned seedy bunch," commented Lynch. "Couldn't afford to
lose good beef. Hello--who's this?"

His eyes rested upon the bunk farthest forward, athwartship bunk in the
eyes. The body of a big man lying therein loomed indistinctly in the
gloom of the corner. Lynch reached the bunk with a bound, and I was
close behind.

But it was not Newman. It was--the Cockney! The very man to whom the
Swede had tendered the runner's job, the man Newman had manhandled! He
lay on his back, snoring loudly, his bloated, unlovely face upturned to
us.

I laughed. "It's the runner," I said. "The Swede's first runner.
Swede gave him the job yesterday."

"And gave him a swig out of the black bottle last night!" commented
Lynch. Then he grasped the significance of the Swede's double cross,
and his laughter joined mine. "_Ho, ho_--shanghaied his own runner!
_Ho, ho_ . . . that damned Swede!"

Then it evidently struck Mister Lynch that he was conducting himself
with unseemly levity in company with a foremast hand. His face became
stern, his voice hard, and my moment of grace was ended.

"Turn to!" he commanded me. "What are you standing about for? Get out
on deck, before I boot you out!"

I knew my p