he
water again, and after a more prolonged ducking whipped them, at a
plunging gallop, upon the Annabel Lee, where they disappeared from
Cleggett's view.

While Cleggett was still wondering what significance could underlie
this unusual form of matutinal exercise, Dr. Farnsworth came out of the
forecastle and beckoned to him. The young Doctor had a red Vandyck
beard sedulously cultivated in the belief that it would make him look
older and inspire the confidence of patients, and a shock of dark red
hair which he rumpled vigorously when he was thinking. He was rumpling
it now.

"Who's 'Loge'?" he demanded.

"Loge?" repeated Cleggett.

"You don't know anyone named 'Loge,' or Logan?"

"No. Why?"

"Whoever he is, 'Loge' is very much on the mind of our young friend in
there," said Farnsworth, with a movement of his head towards the
forecastle. "And I wouldn't be surprised, to judge from the boy's
delirium, if 'Loge' had something to do with all the hell that's been
raised around your ship. Come in and listen to this fellow."

Miss Medley, the nurse, was sitting beside the wounded youth's bunk,
endeavoring to soothe and restrain him. The young anarchist, whose
eyes were bright with fever, was talking rapidly in a weak but
high-pitched singsong voice.

"He's off on the poems again," said the Doctor, after listening a
moment. "But wait, he'll get back to Loge. It's been one or the other
for an hour now."

"I spit upon your flag," shrilled Giuseppe Jones, feebly declamatory.
"'I spit--I spit--but, as I spit, I weep.'" He paused for a moment,
and then began at the beginning and repeated all of the lines which
Cleggett had read from the little book. One gathered that it was
Giuseppe's favorite poem.

"'I spit upon the whole damned thing!'" he shrilled, and then with a
sad shake of his head: "But, as I spit, I weep!"

If the poem was Giuseppe's favorite poem, this was evidently his
favorite line, for he said it over and over again--"'But, as I spit, I
weep'"--in a breathless babble that was very wearing on the nerves.

But suddenly he interrupted himself; the poems seemed to pass from his
mind. "Loge!" he said, raising himself on his elbow and staring, with
a frown not at, but through, Cleggett: "Logan--it isn't square!"

There was suffering and perplexity in his gaze; he was evidently living
over again some painful scene.

"I'm a revolutionist, Loge, not a crook! I won't do it, Loge!"

Watching him, i