cobs. Nosey Murphy held
the turn.

When they stopped from sheer exhaustion Murphy's glance chanced to fall
on Charles Davis, the one man who had not worked since the outset of the
voyage and who was not working now.

"Bear a hand, Davis," the gangster called.

Margaret gurgled low laughter in my ear as she caught the drift of the
episode.

The sea-lawyer looked at the other in amazement ere he answered:

"I guess not."

After nodding Sundry Buyers over to him to take the turn Murphy
straightened his back and walked close to Davis, then said very quietly:

"I guess yes."

That was all. For a space neither spoke. Davis seemed to be giving the
matter judicial consideration. The men at the capstan panted, rested,
and looked on--all save Bombini, who slunk across the deck until he stood
at Murphy's shoulder.

Under such circumstances the decision Charles Davis gave was eminently
the right one, although even then he offered a compromise.

"I'll hold the turn," he volunteered.

"You'll lump around one of them capstan-bars," Murphy said.

The sea-lawyer made no mistake. He knew in all absoluteness that he was
choosing between life and death, and he limped over to the capstan and
found his place. And as the work started, and as he toiled around and
around the narrow circle, Margaret and I shamelessly and loudly laughed
our approval. And our own men stole for'ard along the poop to peer down
at the spectacle of Charles Davis at work.

All of which must have pleased Nosey Murphy, for, as he continued to hold
the turn and coil down, he kept a critical eye on Davis.

"More juice, Davis!" he commanded with abrupt sharpness.

And Davis, with a startle, visibly increased his efforts.

This was too much for our fellows, who, Asiatics and all, applauded with
laughter and hand-clapping. And what could I do? It was a gala day, and
our faithful ones deserved some little recompense of amusement. So I
ignored the breach of discipline and of poop etiquette by strolling away
aft with Margaret.

At the wheel was one of our storm-waifs. I set the course due east for
Valparaiso, and sent the steward below to bring up sufficient food for
one substantial meal for the mutineers.

"When do we get our next grub, sir?" Nosey Murphy asked, as the steward
served the supplies down to him from the poop.

"At midday," I answered. "And as long as you and your gang are good,
you'll get your grub three times each day. You can