a fool nigger. But when his eye looks like that, then you
want to listen close. He sees things then. Lots of times he's seen
things. Even last year--the _Oyama_--he told about her three days
ahead. That's why we were so ready for her," he chuckled.

Nothing more developed for a long time except a savage fight between
Pulz and Perdosa. I hunted sheep, fished, wandered about--always with
an escort tired to death before he started. The thought came to me
to kill this man and so to escape and make cause with the scientists.
My common sense forbade me. I begin to think that common sense is a
very foolish faculty indeed.

It taught me the obvious--that all this idle, vapouring talk was
common enough among men of this class, so common that it would hardly
justify a murder, would hardly explain an unwarranted intrusion on
those who employed me. How would it look for me to go to them with
these words in my mouth:

"The captain has taken to drinking to dull the monotony. The crew
think you are an alchemist and are making diamonds. Their interest
in this fact seemed to me excessive, so I killed one of them, and here
I am."

"And who are you?" they could ask.

"I am a reporter," would be my only truthful reply.

You can see the false difficulties of my position. I do not defend
my attitude. Undoubtedly a born leader of men, like Captain Selover
at his best, would have known how to act with the proper decision both
now and in the inception of the first mutiny. At heart I never doubted
the reality of the crisis.

Even Percy Darrow saw the surliness of the men's attitudes, and with
his usual good sense divined the cause.

"You chaps are getting lazy," said he, "why don't you do something?
Where's the captain?"

They growled something about there being nothing to do, and explained
that the captain preferred to live aboard.

"Don't blame him," said Darrow, "but he might give us a little of his
squeaky company occasionally. Boys, I'll tell you something about
seals. The old bull seals have long, stiff whiskers--a foot long. Do
you know there's a market for those whiskers? Well, there is. The
Chinese mount them in gold and use them for cleaners for their long
pipes. Each whisker is worth from six bits to a dollar and a quarter.
Why don't you kill a few bull seal for the 'trimmings'?"

"Nothin' to do with a voodoo?" grunted Handy Solomon.

Darrow laughed amusedly. "No, this is the truth," he assured. "I'll
tell you what: I'