The figures at my feet, in their canvas shrouds, rolled
gently with the rocking of the ship; the sun beat
down on the decks, on the bare heads of the men, on
the gilt edges of the prayer-book, gleaming in the
light, on the last of the land-birds, drooping in the
heat on the main cross-trees.
“. . . For man walketh in a vain shadow,”
I read, “and disquieteth himself in vain . .
. .
“O spare me a little, that I may recover my
strength: before I go hence, and be no more seen.”
THE DEAD LINE
Mrs. Johns and the stewardess came up late in the
afternoon. We had railed off a part of the deck
around the forward companionway for them, and none
of the crew except the man on guard was allowed inside
the ropes. After a consultation, finding the
ship very short-handed, and unwilling with the night
coming on to trust any of the men, Burns and I decided
to take over this duty ourselves, and, by stationing
ourselves at the top of the companionway, to combine
the duties of officer on watch and guard of the after
house. To make the women doubly secure, we had
Oleson nail all the windows closed, although they
were merely portholes. Jones was no longer on
guard below, and I had exchanged Singleton’s
worthless revolver for my own serviceable one.
Mrs. Johns, carefully dressed, surveyed the railed-off
deck with raised eyebrows.
“For—us?” she asked, looking
at me. The men were gathered about the wheel
aft, and were out of ear-shot. Mrs. Sloane had
dropped into a steamer-chair, and was lying back with
closed eyes.
“Yes, Mrs. Johns.”
“Where have you put them?”
I pointed to where the jolly-boat, on the port side
of the ship, swung on its davits.
“And the mate, Mr. Singleton?”
“He is in the forward house.”
“What did you do with the—the weapon?”
“Why do you ask that?”
“Morbid curiosity,” she said, with a lightness
of tone that rang false to my ears. “And
then—naturally, I should like to be sure
that it is safely overboard, so it will not be”—she
shivered—” used again.”
“It is not overboard, Mrs. Johns,” I said
gravely. “It is locked in a safe place,
where it will remain until the police come to take
it.”
“You are rather theatrical, aren’t you?”
she scoffed, and turned away. But a second later
she came back to me, and put her hand on my arm.
“Tell me where it is,” she begged.
“You are making a mystery of it, and I detest
mysteries.”
I saw under her mask of lightness then: she wanted
desperately to know where the axe was. Her eyes
fell, under my gaze.
“I am sorry. There is no mystery.
It is simply locked away for safe-keeping.”
She bit her lip.
“Do you know what I think?” she said slowly.
“I think you have hypnotized the crew, as you
did me—at first. Why has no one remembered
that you were in the after house last night, that you
found poor Wilmer Vail, that you raised the alarm,
that you discovered the captain and Karen? Why
should I not call the men here and remind them of
all that?”
