ing that calls
himself a man would do it; least of all a genelman like yourself, whom
we all respeck and look up to. Captain Cole, if you've lost Madge, you
know you can only blame yourself."

"I don't call her lost," said Gregory.

"Captain Cole," said Horble, calmly but with a quiver of his lip, "we'll
take another drink and then we'll say good-by."

"I'm not going till I see Madge," said Gregory.

Horble began to tremble.

"It's for Madge to decide," added Gregory.

"Decide what?" demanded Horble in a husky stutter.

"Between you and me, old fellow," said Gregory.

"And you've the gall to say that on my ship, at my table, about my
wife!" exclaimed Horble, punctuating the sentence with the possessive.

"Yes," said Gregory.

Horble sat awhile silent. He was obviously turning the matter over in
his head. He said at last he would go on deck and take another look to
windward.

"There's a power of dirt to windward!" he said.

Gregory, left to himself, edged closer against the bulkhead. He felt
that something was about to happen, and he was in the sort of humor to
never mind what. It did not even worry him to think he was unarmed.

The companion way darkened with Horble's body, and the big naked feet
again floundered for the steps. As they deliberately descended, Gregory
changed his place, taking the corner by the lazarette door, where, at
any rate, he could only be attacked in front. Horble's face plainly
showed discomfiture at this move, and his right hand went hurriedly
behind his back. Gregory was conscious of a belaying pin being whipped
out of sight, and in an instant he was roused and tense, his nostrils
vibrating with a sense of danger. The two men stared at each other, and
then Horble backed into the stateroom, remarking with furtive
insincerity, "There's a power of dirt to windward!" This said, the door
went shut behind him. Gregory sprang to his feet and burst it open with
his powerful shoulders, crushing Horble against the bunk, who, pistol in
hand, fired at him point blank. The bullet went wide, and there was a
sound of shattering glass. Gregory's hands clenched themselves on
Horble's, and the revolver twisted this way and that under the double
grasp. Horble was panting like a steam engine; his lower jaw hung open,
and he cried as he fought, the tears streaking his red face; there was
an agonized light in his eyes, for his forefinger was breaking in the
trigger guard. A hair's breadth more and h