ed, Swope seemed pleased at
Newman's act. He laughed as he wiped his face.

"That stings--eh, Roy? It's true--be certain of that, you soft-hearted
fool. I tell the truth sometimes, Roy--when it serves my purpose. And
I want you to imagine the details of what is going to happen to her.
Think of it, Roy--the Lady of the _Golden Bough_, the saintly Mrs.
Swope, the sweet Mary Baintree that was--lying in Fitzgibbon's arms!
Pretty thought!"

Chuckling, Swope resumed his seat. He leaned forward, and watched
Newman with hawklike intensity. But Newman gave him little cause to
chortle; his head dropped again upon his breast, and he gave no sound,
no movement.

"Why don't you call on God?" asked Swope. "Why don't you call on me?"

Newman lifted his head. "You degenerate beast!" he said. He said it
evenly, without passion, and immediately withdrew his features from the
other's scrutiny.

But the captain was satisfied. He slapped his thigh with delight.

"It stings, eh, Roy? It burns! It runs through your veins like fire!
Doesn't it? It's a hot thought. And here's another one to keep it
company-- You can do nothing to prevent it! To hairy old Fitz she'll
go--and you can't prevent it! Think of that, Roy!"

Newman gave no sign he heard, but the black-hearted villain on the keg
knew that the big fellow's ears were open and that his words were like
stabs in a raw wound. He talked on, and described villainies to come
and villainies accomplished; the tale of his misdeeds seemed to possess
him. He gloried in them, gloated over them. And as I listened, I
realized, ignorant young whelp though I was, that this man was
different from any man I had ever met or imagined. He wasn't human; he
was a freak, a human-looking thing with a tiger's nature.

Always he reminded me of a cat, from the very first moment I clapped
eyes upon him; never did he remind me more of a cat--or tiger--than
when he sat upon the keg and teased Newman. He seemed to purr his
content with the situation.

"I know what you are thinking, Roy," says he. "You are thinking that
my brave and upright second mate will prevent it happening to our dear
little Mary? Am I right, eh? Vain thought. Our friend, Lynch, will
not be here to interfere. I have seen to that. He grows dangerous,
does Jim Lynch, so--elimination. Ah, I could write a treatise upon the
Art of Elimination--couldn't I? Angus Swope, the great eliminator! It
is my specialty, Roy.