wrath by asking questions
that he might consider too personal. Besides, no one cared. There's no
"Who's Who?" in a steamer's stoke-hold. A natural refuge for the scum
of the cities--for those wanted by the police as well as for those who
have failed--even a detective will hesitate to follow his quarry into
the red jaws of hell itself. To this, as much as anything else, the
stoke-hold owes its reputation as the modern Sanctuary.

So they let Armitage alone. He did his "shift" along with the rest,
gaining promotion first as coal-passer, then as trimmer, then as
fireman. His services were valued because of his great strength and
power of endurance. He could go on raking and pulling out fires long
after his mate had fallen back exhausted. But with his superiors he was
not very popular. Discontented, intolerant of discipline, mutinous, he
was nearly always in trouble, and, owing to his violent, uncontrollable
temper, quarrels were incessant even with his comrades. They feared him
more than they loved him, and perhaps this explained why his present
attempt to induce them to desert ship just before sailing-time had not
met with much success.

The first speaker went on:

"They'll catch ye, it's a cinch! Then it'll go hard wid ye. 'Tain't no
worser for you than for the rest of us. The boiler-room's bad enough, I
grant ye that, but it's a darn sight better than goin' to jail. What do
you say, Dutch?" he demanded, turning to another.

Armitage maintained his sulky silence. The man called "Dutch," a
lantern-jawed chap with red hair and a squint, expectorated a long
stream of saliva on the floor before replying. Shifting his quid, he
said:

"I guess Shorty's right, Jack. I ain't no fonder of doin' the suicide
act in that hell-hole than ye is yerself. I'd quit right now, and never
want to see the sight of a bloomin' ship again. But we've signed for the
voyage, ain't we? We must grin and bear it for another trip. The law
gives 'em the right on us. I'm goin' back now, before I'm taken back.
What d'ye say, Bill?"

Bill, already half-seas over, nodded in a stupid, maudlin manner. He had
drunk so much that he could hardly keep his head up, and the words came
thickly from his lips:

"Desert ship?--hie! No, siree! Hie! Ye remember--Robinson, who tried to
beat it at Naples? Hie! They didn't do a thing to him--almost fed the
bloody furnace with him, that's all! No, siree, no pier-head jumps for
me!"

The clock in the outer shop str