Then his groping hand encountered a little object, lying on top of the
capstan, that checked his words instantly. It was a well-known
article, one he had handled often, and recognized immediately he
touched it--it was Little Billy's rubber tobacco-pouch. He fingered it
apprehensively, staring about him. Why was Little Billy's pouch
abandoned there on the capstan-head, this pocket companion of an
inveterate smoker? Why, Little Billy must be near by! He called
excitedly:

"Billy! Billy! Where are you?"

The night took his hail and returned its own sphinx-like reply. Martin
stuffed the pouch into his pocket. He was distinctly uneasy, now, on
the hunchback's account. Something had happened, he felt--some
accident had happened to Little Billy. It was not like Little Billy to
thus forsake his beloved shag, his constant ally in his fight against
the drink hunger. Had the poor devil succumbed after all? Had he
deserted Nicotine for Barleycorn?

Martin leaned over the capstan, peering into that baffling gloom. He
stiffened tensely. He seemed to hear whispering; it came out of that
black pit before him, the very ghost of a man's voice.

He strained his ears, but the sound, if sound it were, was not
repeated. He was impatient for MacLean to appear with the lantern, but
he could no longer hear MacLean's footfalls. Then his ears caught
another sound; it was peculiar, like the patter of bare feet.

"MacLean! Where are you?" he called sharply. "Hurry with that
lantern!"

Instead of MacLean's voice in reply, he heard a heavy breathing, the
sound of a man taking several long, sobbing breaths. The breathing
ceased immediately, but a light patter followed it, and then the scrape
of a shod foot across the deck. The sounds came from just ahead, close
by, but he could see nothing. But he sensed some kind of a struggle
was taking place on the deck.

He started forward, and then stopped dead. Out of the black void
before him came MacLean's voice--strangled words in a horrible,
ascending pitch:

"Marty! Marty! My God! Ah-h-h!"

There, was the thud of a heavy, falling body striking the deck.

For a second Martin was anchored by horror. Then he leaped forward,
giving voice as he did to a great, arousing, wordless bellow. And even
as he ran blindly ahead those few paces, he heard a heavy voice give a
shouted supplement to his call.

The darkness was suddenly alive with rushing feet. A body hurled
itse