“I do not believe you will.  They know I was locked in the storeroom.  The door—­the lock—­”

“You could have locked yourself in.”

“You do not know what you are saying!”

But I had angered her, and she went on cruelly:—­

“Who are you, anyhow?  You are not a sailor.  You came here and were taken on because you told a hard-luck story.  How do we know that you came from a hospital?  Men just out of prison look as you did.  Do you know what we called you, the first two days out?  We called you Elsa’s jail-bird And now, because you have dominated the crew, we are in your hands!”

“Do Mrs. Turner and Miss Lee think that?”

“They feel as I do.  This is a picked crew men the Turner line has employed for years.”

“You are very brave, Mrs. Johns,” I said.  “If I were what you think I am, I would be a dangerous enemy.”

“I am not afraid of you.”

I thought fast.  She was right.  It had not occurred to me before, but it swept over me overwhelmingly.

“You are leaving me only one thing to do,” I said.  “I shall surrender myself to the men at once.”  I took out my revolver and held it out to her.  “This rope is a dead-line.  The crew know, and you will have no trouble; but you must stand guard here until some one else is sent.”

She took the revolver without a word, and, somewhat dazed by this new turn of events, I went aft.  The men were gathered there, and I surrendered myself.  They listened in silence while I told them the situation.  Burns, who had been trying to sleep, sat up and stared at me incredulously.

“It will leave you pretty short-handed, boys,” I finished, “but you’d better fasten me up somewhere.  But I want to be sure of one thing first:  whatever happens, keep the guard for the women.”

“We’d like to talk it over, Leslie,” Burns said, after a word with the others.

I went forward a few feet, taking care to remain where they could see me, and very soon they called me.  There had been a dispute, I believe.  Adams and McNamara stood off from the others, their faces not unfriendly, but clearly differing from the decision.  Charlie Jones, who, by reason of long service and a sort of pious control he had in the forecastle, was generally spokesman for the crew, took a step or two toward me.

“We’ll not do it, boy,” he said.  “We think we know a man when we see one, as well as having occasion to know that you’re white all through.  And we’re not inclined to set the talk of women against what we think best to do.  So you stick to your job, and we’re back of you.”

In spite of myself, I choked up.  I tried to tell them what their loyalty meant to me; but I could only hold out my hand, and, one by one, they came up and shook it solemnly.

“We think,” McNamara said, when, last of all, he and Adams came up, “that it would be best, lad, if we put down in the log-book all that has happened last night and to-day, and this just now, too.  It’s fresh in our minds now, and it will be something to go by.”