drift the lashings that held the chest to the
bunk posts. It was a two-hand job, and he made slow work of it. But
he wouldn't call one of his tradesmen to help him--that would have left
a door unguarded, you see. Nor could he fix his attention upon the
job; he kept twisting his ugly face this way and that way until his
head looked as if it were on a pivot.

If Newman hadn't pointed it out, I doubt if any of us would have seen
the humor of the scene. But Newman's chuckle forced it upon us.
Mister Fitzgibbon did look ridiculous--fumbling blindly with the ropes,
and at the same time trying to keep both ends of the foc'sle in sight
at once.

"I'll lend you one of my hands, Mister," said Newman, suddenly.

The mate glanced at him, startled, but before he could open his mouth,
Newman stepped past the tradesman and bent over one end of the chest.
"It's neatly wrapped; the lad would have been a good sailorman,
Mister," he remarked as he undid the lashing.

The mate realized he was at a disadvantage. He glared vindictively at
the big fellow, and snarled an oath in reply. Then he drew a knife,
and committed the lubberly act of cutting through the lashing at his
end of the chest. Newman had finished undoing the rope at his end, and
now he stepped back into the doorway.

I've never been sure, but I think Newman did it purposely. The rope's
end was spliced about the handle of the chest, and when he cast the
rope loose, it trailed upon the floor. Newman left the bight turned
about the bunk-post, and in such fashion that it would tighten into a
clove-hitch.

Now that it was a case of our laughing at him, the mate was eager to
get out of the foc'sle with as little loss of dignity as possible. He
started to walk away, dragging Nils' chest after him. The clove-hitch
checked him. He jerked, with all his strength, and his strength was
enormous--there was a crack like a pistol shot as the bunk-post
snapped, the chest leaped like a live thing at the man, and
Fitzgibbon's heels flew out from under him. He landed upon his back,
and the chest landed upon his stomach; and the wind went out of him
with an explosive _oof_!

Oh, it was rich. Aye, it was the kind of joke the foc'sle could
appreciate. We did appreciate it. We did not quite dare roar our
laughter, but our chuckles would have shaken windows ashore. Even the
tradesmen grinned--behind their hands--as they lifted the chest from
off their boss, and him to his feet