“That’s true what I said about the money, Jack.  It’s there, just waiting for a few lads of nerve to come and take it.”

“If that talk gets aft, the Old Man will have you thumped into a jelly, just as an example to the other stiffs,” I warned him.

He gave the devil’s cackle that passed with him for a laugh, and stepping close to my side, spoke directly into my ear.

“Who is going to take the talk aft?  Not you.  Blackie and me know that Jack Shreve ain’t a snitch.  Not the Big ’Un.  You can tell him what I said if you like.  You can tell him something more.  Blackie and me think there is a snitch in this gang, and the Big ’Un had better keep his eyes peeled for a double-cross.  You tell him that.  You tell him to ask Nigger about it.”

“What do you mean?” I cried.

His answer was a mysterious shake of the head, and he disappeared into the foc’sle.

CHAPTER XIII

If Boston meant to give me something to think about, he succeeded.  He left me worried.  Not about the treasure or mutiny at which he hinted; for the time being I put this subject out of my mind.  I was concerned over his unexplained warning.  What did it mean?  Did some new danger threaten my friend?

I went in search of Newman, to give him the warning.  He was not in his bunk, so I stepped into the port foc’sle, expecting to find him by Nils’ side.  Nils was dying—­we had been expecting him to go at almost any hour for a week past—­and Newman had been spending a goodly share of his watches below by the lad’s side.

But he was not there now.  The parson, and some of the squareheads of the port watch, were keeping sick vigil.  Nils was very near the time when he must slip his cable; he lay quiet, eyes closed, hardly breathing, and his thin, white face seemed already composed into its death mold.  Holy Joe sat holding the boy’s hand; his head was bowed, and I judged he was praying.  The others stared miserably at the floor, or ceiling, or at each other.  Aye, the taste of bitter sorrow was in the air of the port foc’sle.  I left without disturbing the silent watchers, but I wondered at their boldness.  They should have been on deck.  Mister Fitzgibbon did not give his men respite, even during the dog-watches.

I went poking about the odd corners of the fore deck, expecting to find my man tucked away somewhere smoking and meditating, for Newman was a solitary fellow, very fond of his own company in his free time.  I laid the ill-success of my search to the dusk; it was past seven bells, and although there was still a glow in the western sky, on board ship it was quite dark and the sidelights had been out a half hour.  Finally, I decided to lay off, waylay the Nigger when he came for’ard from his trick at the wheel, and ask him myself what was the meaning of Boston’s talk of “snitch.”

Now it was no light undertaking for a foremast hand to trespass abaft the main mast in the Golden Bough.  There was risk in it, risk of a beating, or worse.  A man might lay aft in that ship to work, or in obedience to orders, but for no other reason.  Hell-ship discipline.