WHEN Black Pawl boasted to the missionary that the men forward were so loyal they brought him word of Red Pawl’s talk to them, he spoke the truth. When he said there was not one of them who listened to the mate, he was mistaken. There was one—Spiess. Spiess had always received more than his share of rough usage; the man was a natural target for harsh words and for blows. Furthermore, he had not that fundamental good nature which made the others of the crew laugh at Black Pawl’s cheerful buffets. Also he lacked that sympathy of heart which dwelt in the others, and let them see the despair which the Captain hid behind his amiable violence.

Spiess listened to Red Pawl, and listened assentingly. Red made a dupe of the man, using him for his own ends. The mate hated his father; also he feared him. He called down death, in his thoughts, upon the Captain’s head; but he would never have dared strike the blow himself. He might have done it, a dozen times. Black Pawl was careless of his own safety. He never wore about him one of the revolvers which were kept in the cabin. Darrin was like him in this; but Red Pawl habitually went armed. The Captain trusted to his fists, and with some reason. He was the match of any two men aboard, saving perhaps his son, in using those lean fists of his.

Red Pawl told Spiess this, one day. “You talk and curse at him, under your breath,” the mate said openly to the other. “But what good is that? He masters you with his open hands. You can never touch him with them. Remember, he told you to bring better than fists next time.”

And Spiess, gripping the wheel-spokes, said under his breath: “Aye; and I will.”

Red Pawl laughed. “You will—thus; and you will—so,” he derided. “But you do—nothing, save take what he gives, and mouth at him behind his back.”

“I will,” Spiess told him. And he glanced at the mate sidewise. “When I do, like is, you’ll be on my back.”

Red Pawl was past caution by this time, in his hatred of the Captain. “When you do,” he said, “I’ll be left master o’ the Deborah. I’ll be at your back, not on it. And—I’ll see the log is entered in a fashion you’d like. When you do!”

Spiess looked at him suspiciously. He was not a trusting man. “When I do,” he said sullenly, “you can log and be damned.”

Then Black Pawl came up from below, and Red moved away from the wheel, and the Captain laughed at them both.

That boast of Black Pawl’s—that his men told him Red Pawl’s whisperings—was in his mind next day when old Flexer, who had sailed twelve years in Black Pawl’s ships, came to him. Flexer had been boat-steerer, and by the same token harpooner, in the boat of the lost third mate whose place had never been filled. He lived with the other harpooners just forward of the cabin. He and his fellows were neither flesh nor fowl—they were not of the crew; they were not of the cabin. Theirs was an intermediate status, and they had privileges. The crew, for example, never came aft of the try-works except upon duties assigned them; but the harpooners were free of the schooner from knight’s-heads to galley, just at the break of deck. There were three of them; one was an islander, and one was of Cape Verde. Flexer, of New England stock, kept himself somewhat aloof from the other two. Also, he had his cronies forward.

He found an opportunity, one day when Red Pawl was below, to speak with the Captain; and he wasted no words in the matter. “Black Pawl,” he said in the tone of an old friend rather than that of an underling, “you’re a bold man; and there’s boldness in me too. I’m minded to tell you a thing that will bring your anger on me.”

Black Pawl looked at the other with narrowed eyes; then he chuckled, and warned the man: “Best look sharp. I’m like to knock you the deck’s length if I’m displeased with you. I’m a harsh man with my fists, Flexer.”

“Aye,” said Flexer gently. “But—not harsh in your heart, sir.”

Black Pawl looked astonished. “You’ve marked that?” he mocked.

Flexer said stubbornly: “You mark this, sir. The mate means harm to you.”

The Captain’s face set for a moment; then he said cheerfully: “So I guessed, in the cabin t’other day, when he tried to crush my in’ards in his arms.”

“Aye, I’ve heard of that,” Flexer said. “But—that was honest fighting, fists and feet. I’m meaning worse.”

For a moment he thought Black Pawl would strike; and he guessed there was liquor in the Captain. But the master of the ship held his hand. “What worse are you meaning, Flexer?” he asked.

“This,” said Flexer: “that if the fools for’ard believed half he whispered to them, there’d be a knife in your back in an hour.”

Black Pawl laughed aloud. “Fiddle, man!” he cried. “I’ve had knives in every inch of me, back and front. They no more than let a little blood.”

“Red Pawl would rather they let out a little life,” said Flexer.

Black Pawl flung the warning aside. “Even Red can’t always have his d’ruthers,” he replied.

“There is the minister,” Flexer urged. “And—there is the girl. They shipped with you, on your ship—not Red Pawl’s. And even if they had not, even if they were strangers ashore, even then, Black Pawl, it would be for you to guard against this son of yours.”

“Did I not curb him in the cabin?”

“I tell you no. I tell you there is death in his eye, for you; and worse for them.”

“For her?”

“For her.”

Black Pawl twisted away. “And why not?” he demanded. “Why is she better than another woman, to be so guarded? Let her take life, rough as it comes, as others do.”

Flexer looked in his captain’s eye; and there was flat condemnation in his gaze. Before his eyes the Captain’s fell.

“Old wives’ tales, Flexer,” he said mockingly. “Forget them; and be still, man—be still.”