Blackie could not withstand that deadly gaze.  He backed hurriedly away, and sat down beside his mate.  Then Newman spoke in low, measured tones, and at the first word the babel of noise stopped in the foc’sle, and all hands watched his lips with bated breath.

“I play a lone hand,” he addressed the pair.  “You will keep your mouths shut, and work, and play none of your deviltries in this ship unless I give the word.  Otherwise—­” The great scar on his forehead was blue and twitching, and his voice was deadly earnest.  He did a thing so expressive it made me shudder.  He lifted his hand, and carelessly placed his forefinger on the outer side of his bunk, and when he lifted it, two of the myriad cockroaches that infested the foc’sle were mashed fiat on the board.

Blackie’s face set sullenly, and the angry blood darkened his cheeks.  Boston wriggled uneasily on his seat, and cleared his throat as though about to speak.  But, at the instant, Lynch’s booming voice came into the foc’sle, calling the watch on deck, and putting an abrupt end to the scene.

There was an immediate scramble for the exit to the deck.  Aye, the mates had put the fear of the Lord—­and themselves—­into us, and we were all eager to show how willing we were!  But I heard Fitzgibbon without, as well as Lynch, and, from the gossip I had heard at the Swede’s, I suspected the foc’sle was about to be introduced to the orthodox hell-ship manner of turning to the watch.  Both mates would meet us coming up, and the first man on deck would get a clout for not being sooner, and the last man a boot for being a laggard.

So I held back, and allowed another the honor of being first through the door.

This honor was seized by none other than Blackie.  I suppose he was anxious to escape from Newman’s disturbing gaze; anyhow, at the second mate’s first summons, he bounded from the bench, and tumbled through the door.  I followed immediately after, and saw my suspicions confirmed.

Mister Fitz was holding a lantern, and Mister Lynch had his hands free for business.  He met Blackie’s egress with a careless jab of his fist that up-ended the unfortunate stiff, and the injunction, “Hearty, now, you swabs!  Lay aft!”

I quickly sidestepped out of the second mate’s range, in case he should aim a blow at me, and started to obey the command to lay aft.  But I had taken but a step when I was arrested by Blackie’s action.

Instead of adopting the sensible course of meekness under insult, Blackie rebounded from the deck and flew at Lynch.  In the light cast by Mister Fitz’s lantern, I saw the gleam of a knife blade in Blackie’s hand.  I suppose the anger that Newman’s words had raised exploded beneath Lynch’s blow, and caused his mad rashness.