(I had only had them about twelve hours.) "If I
blacked them they'd get so dry that they would crack."

"All right. All right, boy," he answered. "I forgot you wore
soft-leather boots. They're the kind they buy up to make salt beef of at
the Navy Yard." He grinned in my face, as though he were pleased; but
a few minutes later, when I had gone forward, I heard him thrashing the
wretched boy, because he had failed to get the boots from me for him.

I soon found that I was pretty closely watched. If I went forward to the
fo'c's'le, I found myself dogged by the ship's boy, who was blubbering
from his whipping, poor lad, as though his heart would break. In between
his sobs, he tried to tell me the use of everything forward, which was
trying to me, as I knew more than he knew. If I went aft, the mate would
come rolling up, to ask me if I could hear the dog-fish bark yet. If I
went below the captain got on to my tracks at once. He was by far the
worst of the three: the other two were only obeying his orders. I went
into my cabin hoping to get rid of him there; but no, it was no use.
In he came, too, with the excuse that he wished to see if I had enough
clothes on my bunk. It was more worrying than words can tell. All the
time I wondered whether he would end by knocking me senseless so that
he might search my boots at his ease. I had the fear of that strongly on
me. I was tempted, yet feared, to drive him from me by threatening him
with my pistol. His constant dogging of me was intolerable. But had I
threatened him, he would have had an excuse for maltreating me. My
duty was to save the letters, not to worry about my own inconveniences.
Often, since then, I have suffered agonies of remorse at not giving up
the letters meekly. Had I done so, I might, who knows, have saved some
two thousand lives. Well. We are all agents of a power greater than
ourselves. Though I was, it may be, doing wrong then, I was doing wrong
unwittingly. Had things happened only a little differently, my wrong
would have turned out a glorious right. The name of Martin Hyde would
have been in the history books. He watched me narrowly as I took off
my waistcoat (pretending to be too hot), nor did he forget to eye
the waistcoat. "See here," he said. "Do you know how a sailor folds a
waistcoat? Give it to me now. I'll show you." He snatched it from my
hands with that rudeness which, in a boorish nature, passes for fun; he
only wished to feel it over so that if