car. He had been lounging against the bar, an
uninterested spectator of the bestowing of the runnership. Now, my
eyes fell upon him, and I saw to my surprise that he was shaken out of
his careless humor. He was standing tensely on the balls of his feet,
and his hands were gripping the bar rail so fiercely his fingers seemed
white and bloodless. It was apparent some stern emotion wrestled him;
the profile I saw was set like chiseled marble. There was something
indescribably menacing in his poise. The sight of him jolted my ears
open to the noises of the room.

The crowd was still talking about the _Golden Bough_. And the talk had
progressed, as talk of the _Golden Bough_ always progressed, from
skipper and mates, to the lady. They spoke of the ship's mystery, of
the Captain's lady. She was a character to pique a sailorman's
interest, the Lady of the _Golden Bough_. Her fame was as wide, and
much sweeter, than the vessel's. With all their toughs' frankness, the
crowd were discussing the lady's puzzling relations with Swope.

"Uncommon queer, I calls it," said one chap, who had sailed in the
ship. "They call 'em man an' wife, but she lives to port, an' he to
starboard. Separate cabins, dash me! I had it from the cabin boy.
They even eats separate. . . . He's nasty to her--I've heard the devil
snarl at her more than once, when I've had a wheel. . . . Blank me,
she's a blessed angel. There was I with a sprained wrist big as my
blanked head, an' Lynch a-hazin' me to work--and every morning she
trips into the foc'sle with her bright cheer an' her linaments. A
blanked, blessed angel, she is!"

"He beats her," supplemented another man. "I got it from a mate what
chummed with the bloke as was a Sails on her one voyage. He said, that
sailmaker did, as how Swope got drunk, and beat her."

The big Cockney, who had been visibly possessed by a pompous
self-importance since his elevation to the dignity of runner, saw fit
to interpose his contrary opinion of the Lady of the _Golden Bough_.
Because the man was vile, his words were vile.

"Blimme, yer needn't worrit abaht Yankee Swope's lydy, as yer call 'er.
She arn't nah bleedin' lydy--she's just a blarsted Judy. Yer got to
knock a Judy abaht, arn't yer? Hi 'arve hit straight--'e picked 'er
hoff the streets----"

The man with the scar wheeled on his heel, reached out, and grasped the
Cockney by his two wrists. I exclaimed aloud when I saw the man's full
fac