g and was afraid of doing. "Cooky's sharpening his knife for Hump,"
was being whispered about among the sailors, and some of them twitted him
about it. This he took in good part, and was really pleased, nodding his
head with direful foreknowledge and mystery, until George Leach, the
erstwhile cabin-boy, ventured some rough pleasantry on the subject.

Now it happened that Leach was one of the sailors told off to douse
Mugridge after his game of cards with the captain. Leach had evidently
done his task with a thoroughness that Mugridge had not forgiven, for
words followed and evil names involving smirched ancestries. Mugridge
menaced with the knife he was sharpening for me. Leach laughed and
hurled more of his Telegraph Hill Billingsgate, and before either he or I
knew what had happened, his right arm had been ripped open from elbow to
wrist by a quick slash of the knife. The cook backed away, a fiendish
expression on his face, the knife held before him in a position of
defence. But Leach took it quite calmly, though blood was spouting upon
the deck as generously as water from a fountain.

"I'm goin' to get you, Cooky," he said, "and I'll get you hard. And I
won't be in no hurry about it. You'll be without that knife when I come
for you."

So saying, he turned and walked quietly forward. Mugridge's face was
livid with fear at what he had done and at what he might expect sooner or
later from the man he had stabbed. But his demeanour toward me was more
ferocious than ever. In spite of his fear at the reckoning he must
expect to pay for what he had done, he could see that it had been an
object-lesson to me, and he became more domineering and exultant. Also
there was a lust in him, akin to madness, which had come with sight of
the blood he had drawn. He was beginning to see red in whatever
direction he looked. The psychology of it is sadly tangled, and yet I
could read the workings of his mind as clearly as though it were a
printed book.

Several days went by, the _Ghost_ still foaming down the trades, and I
could swear I saw madness growing in Thomas Mugridge's eyes. And I
confess that I became afraid, very much afraid. Whet, whet, whet, it
went all day long. The look in his eyes as he felt the keen edge and
glared at me was positively carnivorous. I was afraid to turn my
shoulder to him, and when I left the galley I went out backwards--to the
amusement of the sailors and hunters, who made a point of ga