almost at the
forward poop rail, with his arms raised above his head; and he sent his
voice forward in a stentorian hail, a cry that was like a thunderclap.

"Stop fighting, lads! Stop it, I say! It is I--Newman! Stop fighting
and go for'ard!"

If ever a human face showed amazement and discomfiture, Swope's did.
He had been so busy at his game of potting his officer he did not see
Newman until the latter walked into his range of vision and sent forth
his hail. He could have shot Newman then, and I could not have
prevented, for he had his weapon leveled. But this sudden apparition
seemed to paralyze him; he just lowered his arm, and stared.

It startled and paralyzed all hands. The struggle on the main deck
ceased abruptly. It was the strangest thing I ever beheld, the way
Newman's thunderous command seemed to turn to graven images the men on
deck. They were frozen into grotesque attitudes, arms drawn back to
strike, boots lifted to kick. Mister Lynch stood with his capstan bar
poised, as though he were at bat in a baseball game. Every face was
lifted to the giant figure standing there on the poop. I even saw in
the brilliant light a white face framed in one of the portholes in the
roundhouse.

Newman repeated his command. He did not beg or entreat; he commanded,
and I don't think there was a sailor or stiff on the main deck who,
after his first word, dreamed of disobeying him. Such was the big
man's character superiority, such was the dominance his personality had
acquired over our minds. I tell you, we of the foc'sle looked upon
Newman as of different clay; it was not alone my hero-worship that
magnified his stature, in all our eyes he was one of the great, a being
apart from and above us.

And not only foc'sle eyes regarded him in this light. There were the
tradesmen peering out of the roundhouse ports, with never a thought in
their minds of disobeying his injunction. I had it from their own lips
afterwards; it was not just surprise at the big fellow's sudden
appearance that stayed their hands, it was the power of his
personality. There was Mister Lynch, arrested by Newman's voice in
mid-stroke, as it were. There was Swope, standing palsied and
impotent, with a growing terror in his face.

"Go for'ard, lads! Go below! Come up here, Lynch! Not another blow,
men--for'ard with you!"

The frozen figures on the deck came to life. There was a murmur, a
shuffling of feet, and Lynch lowered his