demanded.
"They're drunk for blood. It's out of your hands, Joel. You've thrown
your ace away. Now, boy--what will you do?"

The men began to surge aft, along the deck.

XVII

THE story of that battle upon the tumbling decks of the _Nathan Ross_ was
to be told and re-told at many a gam upon the whaling grounds. It was
such a story as strong men love; a story of overwhelming odds, of epic
combat, of splendid death where blood ran hot and strong....

There were a full score of men in the group that came aft toward Joel.
And as they came, others, running from the fo'c's'le and dropping from
the rigging, joined them. Every man was drunk with the vision of wealth
that he had built upon Mark Shore's story. The thing had grown and grown
in the telling; it had fattened on the greed native in the men; and it
was a monstrous thing now, and one that would not be denied.... The men,
as they moved aft, made grumbling sounds with their half-caught breath;
and these sounds blended into a roaring growl like the growl of a beast.

To face these men stood Joel. For an instant, he was alone. Then, without
word, old Aaron took his stand beside his captain. Aaron held gripped in
both hands an adze. Its edge was sharp enough to slice hard wood like
cheese.... And at Joel's other side, the cook. A round man, with greasy
traces of his craft upon his countenance. He carried a heavy cleaver.
There is an ancient feud between galley and fo'c's'le; and the men
greeting the cook's coming with a hungry cry of delight....

Joel glanced at these new allies, and saw their weapons. He took the adze
from Aaron, the cleaver from the other; and he turned and hurled them
behind him, over the rail. And in the moment's silence that followed on
this action, he called to the men:

"Go back to your places."

They growled at him; they were wordless, but they knew the thing they
desired. The cook complained at Joel's elbow: "I could use that cleaver."

"I'll not have blood spilled," Joel told him. "If there's fighting, it
will be with fists...."

And Mark touched Joel lightly on the shoulder, and took his place beside
him. He was smiling, a twisted smile above the swollen lump upon his jaw.
He said lightly: "If it's fists, Joel--I think I'm safest to fight beside
you."

Joel looked up at him with a swift glance, and he brushed his hand across
his eyes, and nodded. "I counted on that, Mark--in the last, long run,"
he said. Mark gripped his arm a