f was jammed into the sheavehole in
the yard arm.

Williams sent me down for another pin, while he unbent the clewline, and
overhauled it down to the sheet. When I returned with the fresh pin, I
screwed it into the shackle, clipped on the clewline, and sung out to
the men to take a pull on the rope. This they did, and at the second
heave the shackle came away. When it was high enough, I went up on to
the t'gallant yard, and held the chain, while Williams shackled it into
the spectacle. Then he bent on the clewline afresh, and sung out to the
Second Mate that we were ready to hoist away.

"Yer'd better go down an' give 'em a 'aul," he said. "I'll sty an' light
up ther syle."

"Right ho, Williams," I said, getting into the rigging. "Don't let the
ship's bogy run away with you."

This remark I made in a moment of light-heartedness, such as will come
to anyone aloft, at times. I was exhilarated for the time being, and
quite free from the sense of fear that had been with me so much of late.
I suppose this was due to the freshness of the wind.

"There's more'n one!" he said, in that curiously short way of his.

"What?" I asked.

He repeated his remark.

I was suddenly serious. The _reality_ of all the impossible details of
the past weeks came back to me, vivid, and beastly.

"What do you mean, Williams?" I asked him.

But he had shut up, and would say nothing.

"What do you know--how much do you know?" I went on, quickly. "Why did
you never tell me that you--"

The Second Mate's voice interrupted me, abruptly:

"Now then, up there! Are you going to keep us waiting all night? One of
you come down and give us a pull with the ha'lyards. The other stay up
and light up the gear."

"i, i, Sir," I shouted back.

Then I turned to Williams, hurriedly.

"Look here, Williams," I said. "If you think there is _really_ a danger
in your being alone up here--" I hesitated for words to express what I
meant. Then I went on. "Well, I'll jolly well stay up with you."

The Second Mate's voice came again.

"Come on now, one of you! Make a move! What the hell are you doing?"

"Coming, Sir!" I sung out.

"Shall I stay?" I asked definitely.

"Garn!" he said. "Don't yer fret yerself. I'll tike er bloomin' piy-diy
out of 'er. Blarst 'em. I ain't funky of 'em."

I went. That was the last word Williams spoke to anyone living.

I reached the decks, and tailed on to the haulyards.

We had nearly mast-headed the yard, and the