ate of ships. Lynch had no mercy on the stiffs
of our watch; he hammered the rudiments of seamanship into them with
astonishing speed. He cuffed a knowledge of English into the
squareheads. But he kept his hands off Newman and me, not because he
was afraid of us--I don't think Lynch feared anything--but because we
knew our work and did it. Oh, I got mine, and with interest, in the
_Golden Bough_, but not from Lynch.

The mate was a different type. He was all brute, was Fitzgibbon, and
sailors and stiffs alike caught it from him. A natural bully, and,
like most such, at heart craven.

Lynch used his bare fists upon the men, Fitz used brass knuckles. I
don't think Lynch ever bothered to carry a gun in the daytime.
Fitzgibbon never stirred on deck without a deadly bulge in his coat
pocket. Lynch stalked among us by night or day, alone, and unafraid.
After dark, the mate never stirred from the poop unless Sails and Chips
were at his heels. Lynch was a bluff, hard man; Fitzgibbon was a
cruel, sly beast.

And Swope! Well, I cannot explain or judge his character. It would
take a medical man to do that, I think. He was his two mates rolled
into one, plus brains. He had fed a certain strong Sadistic element in
his nature until inflicting pain upon others had become his chief
passion. I can imagine his perverted soul living in former lives--as a
Familiar of the Inquisition, or the red-clad torturer of some medieval
prince. But explain him, no. I will tell his ending, you may judge.

But, of course, I was not musing upon the economy of hell-ships, or the
characters of bucko mates, during the balance of that trick at the
wheel. The lady's message to Newman possessed my mind.

When I went forward at eight bells, I immediately called Newman aside,
and delivered her words. He listened in silence, and his face grew
soft. He squeezed my hand, and whispered somewhat brokenly, "Thank
you, Jack"--an exhibition of emotion that startled as much as it
pleased me, he being such a stern man.

Then, when I repeated the latter part of the lady's message, "Tell him
. . . to look behind him when he walks in the dark," his features
hardened again, and I heard him mutter, "So, that is his game!"

"What is?" I asked.

He did not answer for a moment, and I turned away towards my bunk. But
at that he reached out a detaining hand.

"You are a big man, Shreve," he said. "Not such a difference in our
sizes but that a man mig