o axed wot _you_ think, you swabs?" he bellowed. "Stow your lip!
Sink me, if you don't all do as you're bid, an' keep still tongues in
your 'eds, I'll want to know w'y--P.D.Q."

A big, blond Norwegian, Hans Olsen by name, strode forward. Unlike the
usual self-contained Norseman, he was reputed a "sea-lawyer" in the
forecastle.

"We haf somedings ter zay for our lifes, yez," he protested. Coke bent
and butted him violently in the stomach with his head. The man crashed
against the rocky wall, and sat dazed where he had fallen.

"You've got to obey orders--savvy?" growled Coke.

"Yez," gasped Olsen, evidently fearing a further assault.

The incident ended. Its outstanding feature was the amazing activity
displayed by the burly skipper, who had rammed his man before the big
fellow could lift a finger. It might be expected that Iris would show
some sign of dismay, owing to this unlooked-for violence. But she was
now beyond the reach of merely feminine emotions. She had protested
against the kicking of Watts because it seemed to lack motive, because
Watts was helpless, and because she herself was half-delirious at the
time. Olsen's attitude, on the other hand, hinted at mutiny, and
mutiny must be repressed at any cost.

De Sylva's incisive accents helped to bridge a moment fraught with
possibilities, for it would be idle to assume that this polyglot
gathering was composed of Bayards. Self-preservation is apt to prove
stronger than chivalry under such circumstances. Let it be assumed
that three among the twenty could escape that night, and it was
horribly true that the field of selection might be narrowed by a
wild-beast struggle long before the sun went down.

"The young lady has at least given us a project," he said. "It is a
desperate one, Heaven knows! It offers a fantastic chance, and I can
see no other, but--what can we do without arms?"

"Use our heads," put in Hozier. He had not the slightest intention of
making a light-hearted joke at that crisis in their affairs, but he
happened to look at Coke, and an involuntary smile gleamed through the
crust of clotted blood and perspiration that gave his good-looking face
a most sinister aspect. The Irishman cackled with laughter.

"Begob, that's wan for the skipper," he crowed; then some of the others
grinned, and the _Andromeda's_ little company stood four-square again
to the winds of adversity. Having blundered into prominence, the
second mate was qu