the watch swore in a low grunt and dropped his broom,
meeting the wondering eyes of the "Dutchmen" and "Dagoes" with a
scowl. He was white-haired and red-faced, a veteran among the nomads
of the sea, the oldest man aboard, and the only one in the port watch
who had not felt the weight of the mate's fist. Scowling still, as
though in deep thought, he moved towards the ladder. The forlorn hope
was going on a desperate enterprise of rescue.

It might have been an ugly business; there was a sense in the minds
of his fellows of something sickening about to happen; but the mate
had finished with Conroy. The youth came staggering and crying down
the ladder, with tears and blood befouling his face, and stumbled as
his foot touched the deck. The older man, Slade, saved him from
falling, and held him by the upper arm with one gnarled, toil-
roughened hand, peering at him through the early morning gloom.

"Kicked you when you was down, didn't he?" he demanded abruptly.

"Yes," blubbered Conroy, shivering and dabbing at his face. "With his
sea-boots, too, the--the----"

Slade shook him. "Don't make that noise or he might kick you spine
more," he advised grimly. "You better go now an' swab that blood off
your face."

"Yes," agreed Conroy tremulously, and Slade let him go.

The elder man watched him move forward on shambling and uncertain
feet, with one hand pressed to his flank, where the mate's kick was
still an agony. Slade was frowning heavily, with a tincture of
thought in his manner, as though he halted on the brink of some
purpose.

"Conroy," he breathed, and started after the other.

The younger man turned. Slade again put his hand on Conroy's arm.

"Say," he said, breathing short, "is that a knife in your belt?"

Conroy felt behind him, uncomprehending, for the sheath-knife, which
he wore, sailor fashion, in the middle of his back.

"What d'you mean?" he asked vacantly. "Here's my knife."

He drew it and showed it to Slade, the flat blade displayed in his
palm.

The white-haired seaman thrust his keen old face toward Conroy's, so
that the other could see the flash of the white of his eyes.

"And he kicked you, didn't he?" said Slade tensely. "You fool!"

He struck the knife to the deck, where it rattled and slid toward the
scupper.

"Eh?" Conroy gaped, not understanding. "I don't see what----"

"Pick it up!" said Slade, with a gesture toward the knife. He spoke,
as though he strangled an impulse to brand