The first officer was now on the deck beneath the pump-man.  “You’d better come down, Kieran.  It will be the safest way in the end.”

“Mr. Brown, you’re a good officer, and I don’t want to cross you, but you’re not going to put me in irons.”

The ship was rolling gently.  Kieran rested one hand lightly, by way of balance, on a stay, and kicked his shoes overboard.  “A step nearer, Mr. Brown, and I go after the shoes.”

“But it’s five miles to the Florida shore, Kieran, and alive with sharks.  You’d never make it.  Come on now.”

“No.  Five miles or fifty, I’ll have a try at it.”

Noyes now laid a warning hand on the captain’s arm.  “Are you going to insist on putting that man in irons?”

“I am.  And stand clear of me, you.”

“If you try to, he’ll jump overboard.”

“And if he does, what of it?”

“If he does, there’ll be a bad time ahead for you.”

“There will?  There’s liable to be a bad time for you right now.  Do you know you have no rights on this ship unless I say so?  Don’t you know I can put you in irons, too—­that’s marine law—­if I feel like it?”

“I know what maritime law is.  And that’s the devil of it when there’s a brute on the bridge.  You can put me in irons if you want to, but I don’t think you will.”

“So?” sneered the captain.  “I won’t?  And why not?”

“Because I’m no friendless seafarer.  And also because—­here’s my card.  Read it.  It’s the card of your boss, the man who can hire or fire you, or any other man or officer of this line.  And I don’t have to give you a reason unless it pleases me.  But I’ll give a reason at the right time—­in your case.  And the reason will leave you where you’ll never again set foot on the deck of any ship of this line or of a good many other lines.”

The captain had set his back to the rail and bared his teeth.  Noyes, thinking he was about to spring, braced his feet and waited.  Noyes himself was no angelic-looking creature at the moment.  His jaw seemed to shoot forward, his eyes to contract and recede.

“And so that’s who you are, is it?  And you’d break me?”

“Break you, yes.  And perhaps put you in jail before I’m done with you.  Now will you put him in irons?”

The captain did not spring.  He walked to his room instead.  And he gave out no order just then; but soon the mess-boy came out and whispered to the first officer, and the first officer said, “Kieran, you’re to return to duty,” and pocketed his irons and called off the men.

It was an hour after the fight.  Kieran had had time to clean up, and now, with the passenger, he was pacing the long gangway.

“And would you have gone over the side?” the passenger had asked.

“I guess I’d had to, wouldn’t I?”

“And would you have reached shore?”

“Why not?  Five miles—­it’s not much in smooth water.”