on the log for admiralty investigation and Coulter's only reply
was to send the insurgent into the inferno of the stoke hold for an
extra shift at the shovels. In the stokehold the thermometer registered
130 degrees Fahrenheit, and the white and brown torsos that strained
under the trembling dials were black with the sooty sweat of their
effort and red with the pitiless glare from the grates.

From these beginnings the cloud on the horizon of our affairs steadily
gathered and blackened until an ominous pall of impending mutiny
overhung us. Only an occasional coral reef or atoll now broke the
monotony of a dead and oily sea. No shred of cloud relieved the
emptiness of a devitalized sky. Mansfield and I went about in canvas
shoes and pajamas. The ship was more disheveled than we, and its
discipline more slovenly than its dress. The churlish silence of the
fo'castle was met by the braggart autocracy of the officers. Conditions
grew tenser and thicker with each day, yet no specific rupture came to
fire the waiting explosion. Slowly it brewed and gathered menace, while
the air hung pulseless and heavy under its shadow. Mansfield and I knew
it needed only a lightning flash to loose all the artillery of the
thunders and set them about their hell's fury. By tacit consent we did
not often talk of it, but we remained close together and placed our
revolvers, belts and sheath-knives where they could be readily caught
up. Under the silent horror of foreboding our nerves became raw and our
tempers, like those of the others, short and raspy. On one sultry
afternoon when the trade wind was dead, I came upon Mansfield sprawling
in the shadow of a life-boat, diligently reading entries from the
unknown girl's diary, touching the incidents of her sheltered and
untroubled life. He glanced up shamefacedly, then began in exculpation:

"See here, you know you're quite wrong about the guiltiness of reading
this. I'm sure she wouldn't mind. She's not that sort. Here we are
menaced by the inferno of a mutiny. We are no better than mice waiting
the pleasure of a cat, which means to crush them.... The atmosphere
will drive us mad. This book is like a breeze off the heather.... I tell
you it helps."

In abnormal times men entertain abnormal ideas and warped notions. I sat
cross-legged on the deck beside him and stuffed tobacco into my pipe. I
said nothing.

"It's all getting on my nerves. I'm losing my grip!" he admitted. "Last
night I dreamed o