uld Martin extract from the
dour Scot. MacLean would shake his head and mumble that feydom brooded
over the brig and hint darkly of battle and bloodshed.

That night, in the privacy of their berth, Martin mentioned MacLean's
dismal croakings to Little Billy. He was minded to jest about the
pessimist, but, to his great surprise, the hunchback listened to his
recountal with a very grave face. But after a moment Little Billy's
smile returned, and he explained.

"Sails is a Highland Scot," he told Martin. "Of course he is
superstitious, as well as a constitutional croaker. He claims to be a
seventh son, or something like that, and to be able to foretell death.
When he speaks of a 'feyed' man, he means one over whom he sees
hovering the shadow of death. He didn't say who was feyed, did he?"

"No, he wouldn't talk further," answered Martin. "What bosh!"

"Yes, of course," assented Little Billy. "You and I, with our minds
freed of superstition, may laugh--but Sails, I think, believes in his
visions. And, to tell you the truth, your words gave me something of a
start at first. I have known MacLean a long time, you know. Last
voyage, he told me one day that Lomai, a Fiji boy, was feyed, and that
very night Lomai fell from the royal yard and was smashed to death on
the deck. And once before that, before I became one of the happy
family, he foretold a death to the captain. I am glad you told me
about this. He didn't mention a name?"

"No. Just said he had dreamed three times of the feyed," said Martin,
impressed in spite of himself.

"I'll speak to him, myself," went on Little Billy. "Won't do any good,
though. He only tells one person of his foresight, and he has chosen
you this time. But I wish--oh, what is wrong with us! Of course it is
bosh! The old grumbler has indigestion from eating too much. I am
going to read awhile, Martin, if the light won't bother you. Don't
feel sleepy."

The hunchback clambered into his upper bunk and composed himself, book
in hand. Martin finished his disrobing and rolled into his bunk,
beneath the other. He was tired, but he didn't go to sleep directly.
His mind was busy. Not with thoughts of Sails and his ghostly
warning--Martin had not been long enough at sea to be tinged with the
sailor's inevitable superstition, and he was stanchly skeptical of
supernatural warnings. Martin lay awake thinking of the deformed
little man, ostensibly reading, a few feet above him.