gged
for his life. "One man can't hurt us," he sobbed. "We can't go on with
this. I spoke to him at dinner. He's an awful decent little cad. It
can't be done. Nobody can go into that place and murder him. It's too
damned wicked."

The sound of his supplications was perhaps audible to the unfortunate
below.

"One left and we all hang," said Wicks. "Brown must go the same road."
The big man was deadly white and trembled like an aspen; and he had no
sooner finished speaking than he went to the ship's side and vomited.

"We can never do it if we wait," said Carthew. "Now or never," and he
marched towards the scuttle.

"No, no, no!" wailed Tommy, clutching at his jacket.

But Carthew flung him off, and stepped down the ladder, his heart rising
with disgust and shame. The Chinaman lay on the floor, still groaning;
the place was pitch dark.

"Brown!" cried Carthew; "Brown, where are you?"

His heart smote him for the treacherous apostrophe, but no answer came.

He groped in the bunks: they were all empty. Then he moved towards the
forepeak, which was hampered with coils of rope and spare chandlery in
general.

"Brown!" he said again.

"Here, sir," answered a shaking voice; and the poor invisible caitiff
called on him by name, and poured forth out of the darkness an endless,
garrulous appeal for mercy. A sense of danger, of daring, had alone
nerved Carthew to enter the forecastle; and here was the enemy crying
and pleading like a frightened child. His obsequious "Here, sir," his
horrid fluency of obtestation, made the murder tenfold more revolting.
Twice Carthew raised the pistol, once he pressed the trigger (or thought
he did) with all his might, but no explosion followed; and with that the
lees of his courage ran quite out, and he turned and fled from before
his victim.

Wicks sat on the fore hatch, raised the face of a man of seventy, and
looked a wordless question. Carthew shook his head. With such composure
as a man displays marching towards the gallows, Wicks arose, walked to
the scuttle, and went down. Brown thought it was Carthew returning, and
discovered himself, half-crawling from his shelter, with another
incoherent burst of pleading. Wicks emptied his revolver at the voice,
which broke into mouse-like whimperings and groans. Silence succeeded,
and the murderer ran on deck like one possessed.

The other three were now all gathered on the fore hatch, and Wicks took
his place beside them without questio