He came
abreast of us, and paused there in the empty center of the deck.

It was the lady, on the poop above, who broke the spell of silence the
man's dramatic arrival had placed upon all hands. She broke it with a
kind of strangled gasp. "Roy--it is Roy--oh, God!" she said, and she
swayed, and clutched the rail before her as though to keep from
falling. She stared down at Newman as if he were a ghost from the
grave.

But it was the manner of Captain Swope which commanded the attention of
all hands. He was seeing a ghost, too, an evil ghost. It was like
foc'sle belief come true--this man had sold his soul to the Devil, and
the Devil was suddenly come to claim his own. He, too, stared down at
Newman, and clutched the rail for support, while the flesh of his face
became a livid hue, and his expression one of incredulous horror.

"Where have you come from?" he said in a shrill, strained voice.

Newman's clothes and face were smutted with the grime from the peak,
but his air was debonair. He answered Captain Swope airily. "Why--I
come just now from your forepeak--a most unpleasant, filthy hole,
Angus! And less recently, I come from my grave, from that shameful
grave of stripes and bars to which your lying words sent me, Angus!
I've come to pay you a visit, to sail with you. Why, I'm on your
articles--I am 'A. Newman.' An apt name, a true name--_eh_, Angus?
Come now, are you not glad to see me?"

It was unprecedented, that occurrence. A foremast hand badgering the
captain on his own poop deck; badgering Yankee Swope of the _Golden
Bough_, whilst his two trusty buckos stood by inactive and gaping.
But, as I explained, there was an air about Newman that said "Hands
off!" It was not so much his huge, muscular body; there was something
in the spirit of the man that was respect-compelling; something lethal,
a half-hidden, over-powering menace; something that overawed. He was
no foc'sle Jack, no commonplace hard case; as he stood there alone, he
had the bearing of a man who commanded large ships, who directed great
affairs. And his bearing held inactive and over-awed those two
fighting mates, while he mocked their god, Swope.

And Swope! The man became craven before Newman's upturned gaze. He
was palsied with fear, stark fear. I saw the sweat beads glistening on
his brow. He lifted a shaking hand and wiped them off. Then he
suddenly turned and strode aft, out of our view, without a parting word
to the