, had been built directly into the bows, so that the
bunks, arranged three tiers high, formed a complete half circle. The
single lantern, flickering and flaring as it swung constantly to the
sharp pitching of the vessel, cast grotesque shadows, and failed
entirely to penetrate the corners. The deck below me was littered with
chests, sea boots, and odds and ends of clothing, while farther aft
considerable water had found entrance through the scuttle hole, and
was slushing back and forth as the bark rolled. About half the bunks
seemed to be occupied, the figures of the sleeping men barely
discernible, although their heavy breathing evidenced their presence,
and added to the babel of sound. Every bolt and beam creaked and
groaned in the ceaseless struggle with the sea.

The bunk in which I had awakened was situated almost at the apex of
the half circle, so that I had a clear view of the wider open space.
Those beneath me contained no occupants, nor, at first, could I
distinguish any in the tier directly opposite. Evidently the watch off
duty preferred to seek their rest as far away as possible from those
waves pounding against the bow. However, as I sat there, staring about
at this scene, and uncertain as to what my next move should be, there
was a stir within the upper berth on my own level, and a moment later,
an uplifted face appeared suddenly in the yellow flare of light. It
was manifestly an English face at first glance, rosy of cheek, with
chestnut beard, and light, tousled hair. A pair of humorous, gray eyes
surveyed me silently, and then, apparently satisfied by the scrutiny,
the owner sat up in the bunk, revealing powerful shoulders, and a
round, bull neck.

"Ahoy, mate," he said pleasantly, endeavoring to speak low, the effort
resembling the growl of a bear. "How do you feel--pretty sore?"

"Ache from head to foot," I answered, immediately feeling his
friendliness. "But no harm done."

"I saw part of it. The damn black brute kicked savagely enough, but at
that you're lucky; it's the Spanish style to use a knife. I've seen
that cock slash a man into ribbons for nothing at all--just to show he
was bad. Haines tells me your name is Gates, and that you are
English."

"That's right; I shipped first out of Bristol."

"So did I, mate--twenty years ago though, and I never went back since.
My name is Tom Watkins. Let's shake; there is quite a sprinkling of us
Britishers aboard, and we ought to hang together."

He