a was not so bad; his Mexican blood inclined him
to the histrionic, and his Mexican cast lent itself well to evil looks.
But Handy Solomon, for the first time in my acquaintance with him,
was ridiculous.

About this time we crossed into frequent thunders. One evening just
at dark we made out a heavy black squall. Not knowing exactly what
weight lay behind it, I called up all hands. We ducked the staysail
and foresail, lowered the peak of the mainsail, and waited to feel
of it--a rough and ready seamanship often used in these little California
windjammers. I was pretty busy, but I heard distinctly Handy Solomon's
voice behind me.

"I'll kill you sure, you Greaser, as soon as my hands are free!"

And some muttered reply from the Mexican.

The wind hit us hard, held on a few moments, and moderated to a stiff
puff. There followed the rain, so of course I knew it would amount
to nothing. I was just stooping to throw the stops off the staysail
when I felt myself seized from behind, and forced rapidly toward the
side of the ship.

Of course I struggled. The Japanese have a little trick to fool a man
who catches you around the waist from behind. It is part of the
jiu-jitsu taught the Samurai--quite a different proposition from the
ordinary "policeman jiu-jitsu." I picked it up from a friend in the
nobility. It came in very handy now, and by good luck a roll of the
ship helped me. In a moment I stood free, and Perdosa was picking
himself out of the scuppers.

The expression of astonishment was fairly well done--I will say that
for him--but I was prepared for histrionics.

"Senor!" he gasped. "Eet is you! _Sacrosanta Maria!_ I thought
you was dat Solomon! Pardon me, senor! Pardon! Have I hurt you?"

He approached me almost wheedling. I could have laughed at the
villain. It was all so transparent. He no more mistook me for Handy
Solomon than he felt any real enmity for that person. But being angry,
and perhaps a little scared, I beat him to his quarters with a
belaying pin.

On thinking the matter over, however, I failed to see all the ins and
outs of it. I could understand a desire to get rid of me; there would
be one less of the afterguard, and then, too, I knew too much of the
men's sentiments, if not of their plans. But why all this elaborate
farce of the mock quarrel and the alleged mistake? Could it be to
guard against possible failure? I could hardly think it worth while.
My only theory was that they had wished