At the moment when Joel reached the deck, the other men aboard the Nathan Ross were widely scattered.

Varde, the second mate, he had left tied and helpless in the cabin. Two of the four harpooners were below in their bunks, asleep. The greater part of one watch was likewise below, in the fo’c’s’le; and the rest of the crew, under Dick Morrell’s eye, were shortening sail. In the after part of the ship there were only Mark Shore, Finch, a foremast hand at the wheel, old Aaron Burnham, and the cook. Of these, Mark, Jim, and the man at the wheel were in sight when Joel appeared; and only Mark had seen him.

Joel saw his brother smile, and stood for an instant, poised to meet an attack. None came. He swept his eyes forward and saw that he need fear no immediate interference from that direction; and so he went quietly toward the men astern. The broad back of Jim Finch was within six feet of him....

What moved Mark Shore in that moment, it is hard to say. It may have been the reckless spirit of the man, willing to wait and watch and see what Joel would do; or it may have been the distaste he must have felt for Jim Finch’s slavish adulation; or it may have been an unadmitted admiration for Joel’s courage....

At any rate, while Joel advanced, Mark stood still and smiled; and he gave Finch no warning, so that when Joel touched the mate’s elbow, Finch whirled with a startled gasp of surprise and consternation, and in his first panic, tried to back away. Still Mark made no move. The man at the wheel uttered one exclamation, looked quickly at Mark for commands, and took his cue from his leader. Finch was left alone and unsupported to face Joel.

Joel did not pursue the retreating mate. He stepped to the rail, where the whaleboats hung, and called to Finch quietly:

“Mr. Finch, step here.”

Finch had retreated until his shoulders were braced against the wall of the after house. He leaned there, hands outspread against the wall behind him, staring at Joel with goggling eyes. And Joel said again:

“Come here, Mr. Finch.”

Joel’s composure, and the determination and the confidence in his tone, frightened Finch. He clamored suddenly: “How did he get here, Captain Shore? Jump him. Tie him up—you—Aaron....”

He appealed to the man at the wheel, and to old Aaron, who had appeared in the doorway of the tiny compartment where his tools were stored. Neither stirred. Mark Shore, chuckling, stared at Finch and at Joel; and Finch cried:

“Captain Shore. Come on. Let’s get him....”

Joel said for the third time: “Come here, Finch.”

Finch held out a hand to Mark, appealingly. Mark shook his head. “This is your affair, Finch,” he said. “Go get him, yourself. He’s waiting for you. And—you’re twice his size.”

Give Finch his due. With even moral support behind him, he would have overwhelmed Joel in a single rush. Without that support, he would still have faced any reasonable attack. But there was something baffling about Joel’s movements, his tones, the manner of his command, that stupefied Finch. He felt that he was groping in the dark. The mutiny must have collapsed.... It may have been only a snare to trap him.... He was alone—against Joel, and with none to support him....

Finch’s courage was not of the solitary kind. He took one slow step toward Joel, and in that single step was surrender.

Joel stood still, but his eyes held the big man’s; and he said curtly: “Quickly, Finch.”

Finch took another lagging step, another....

Joel dropped his hand in his coat pocket and drew out a pair of irons. He tossed them toward Finch; and the mate shrank, and the irons struck him in the body and fell to the deck. He stared down at them, stared at Joel.

Joel said: “Pick them up. Snap one on your right wrist. Then put your arms around the davit, there, and snap the other....”

Finch shook his head in a bewildered way, as though trying to understand; and abruptly, a surge of honest anger swept him, and he stiffened, and wheeled to rush at Joel. But Joel made no move either to retreat or to meet the attack; and Finch, like a huge and baffled bear, slumped again, and slowly stooped, and gathered up the handcuffs....

With them in his hands, he looked again at Joel; and for a long moment their eyes battled. Then Joel stepped forward, touched Finch lightly on the arm, and guided him toward the rail. Finch was absolutely unresisting. The sap had gone out of him....

Joel drew the man’s arms around the davit, and snapped the irons upon his wrist. Finch was fast there, out of whatever action there was to come. And Joel’s lips tightened with relief. He stepped back....

He saw, then, that some of the crew had heard, and three or four of them were gathering amidships, near the try works. The two harpooners were there; and one of them was that black whom Joel had brought from the Martin Wilkes, and in whom he placed some faith. He eyed these men for a moment, wondering whether they were nerved to strike....

But they did not stir, they did not move toward him; and he guessed they were as stupefied as Finch by what had happened. So long as the men aft allowed him to go free, they would not interfere. They did not understand; and without understanding, they were helpless.

He turned his back on them, and looked toward Mark.

Mark Shore had watched Joel’s encounter with Finch in frank enjoyment. Such incidents pleased him; they appealed to his love for the bold and daring facts of life.... He had smiled.

But now Joel saw that he had stepped back a little, perhaps by accident. He was behind the man at the wheel, behind the spot where Aaron Burnham stood. He was standing almost against the after rail, in the narrow corridor that runs fore and aft through the after house....

The pistols were in his belt, and the two rifles leaned on the rail at his side. Mark himself was standing at ease, his arms relaxed, his hands resting lightly on his hips and his feet apart. He swayed to the movement of the ship, balancing with the unconscious ease of long custom.

Joel went toward him, not slowly, yet without haste. He passed old Aaron with no word, passed the wheelman, and faced his brother. They were scarce two feet apart when he stopped; and there were no others near enough to hear, above the slashing of the seas and the whistle of the wind, his low words.

He said: “Mark, you’ve made a mistake. A bad mistake. In—starting this mutiny.”

Mark smiled slowly. “That’s a hard word, Joel. It’s in my mind that if this is mutiny, it’s a very peaceful model.”

“Nevertheless, it is just that,” said Joel. “It is that, and it is also a mistake. And—you are wise man enough to see this. There is still time to remedy the thing. It can be forgotten.”

Mark chuckled. “If that is true, you’ve a most convenient memory, Joel.”

Joel’s cheeks flushed slowly, and he answered: “I am anxious to forget—whatever shames the House of Shore.”

Mark threw back his head and laughed aloud. “Bless you, boy,” he exclaimed. “’Tis no shame to you to have fallen victim to our numbers.” But there was a heat in his tones that told Joel he was shaken. And Joel insisted steadily:

“It was not my own shame I feared.”

“Mine, then?” Mark challenged.

“Aye,” said Joel. “Yours.”

Mark bent toward him with a mocking flare of anger in his eyes; and he said harshly: “You’ve spoken too much for a small man. Be silent. And go below.”

Joel waited for an instant; then his shoulders stirred as though he chose a hard course, and he held out his hand and said quietly: “Give me the guns, Mark.”

Mark stared at him; and he laughed aloud. “You’re immense, boy,” he applauded. “The cool nerve of you....” His eyes warmed with frank admiration. “Joel, hark to this,” he cried, and jerked his head toward the captive Finch. “You’ve ripped the innards out of that mate of mine. I’ll give you the job. You’re mate of the Nathan Ross and I’m proud to have you....”

“I am captain of the Nathan Ross,” said Joel. “And you are my brother, and a—mutineer. Give me the guns.”

Mark threw up his hand angrily. “You’ll not hear reason. Then—go below, and stay there. You....”

There are few men who can stand flat-footed and still hit a crushing blow; but Joel did just this. When Mark began to speak, Joel’s hands had been hanging limply at his sides. On Mark’s last word, Joel’s right hand whipped up as smoothly as a whip snaps; and it smacked on Mark’s lean jaw with much the sound a whip makes. It struck just behind the point of the jaw, on the left hand side; and Mark’s head jerked back, and his knees sagged, and he tottered weakly forward into Joel’s very arms.

Joel’s hands were at the other’s belt, even as Mark fell. He brought out the revolvers, then let Mark slip down to the deck; and he stepped over the twitching body of his brother, and caught up the two rifles, and dropped them, with the revolvers, over the after rail.

Mark’s splendid body had already begun to recover from the blow; he was struggling to sit up, and he saw what Joel did, and cried aloud: “Don’t be a fool, boy. Keep them.... Hell!” For the weapons were gone. Joel turned, and looked down at him; and he said quietly:

“While I can help it, there’ll be no blood shed on my ship.”

Mark swept an arm toward the waist of the ship, and Joel looked and saw a growing knot of angry men there. “See them, do you?” Mark demanded. “They’re drunk for blood. It’s out of your hands, Joel. You’ve thrown your ace away. Now, boy—what will you do?”

The men began to surge aft, along the deck.