Slade pitched it to his bunk, where it lay on the blanket. "It's
yours," he repeated. "If yer don't want it, heave it overboard
yerself or stick it back in the rail. Never touched him--you make me
sick with yer never touched him!"
The door slammed on his scornful retreat; Conroy shuddered and sat
up. The iron belaying-pin lay where it had fallen, on his bed, and
even in that meager light it carried the traces of its part in the
mate's death. It had the look of a weapon rather than of a humble
ship-fitting. It rolled a couple of inches where it lay as the ship
leaned to a gust, and he saw that it left a mark where it had been, a
stain.
He seized it in a panic and started for the door to be rid of it at
once.
As if a malicious fate made him its toy, he ran full into the Greek
outside.
"Ah!" The man's smile flashed forth, wise and livid. "An' so you 'ad
it in your pocket all de time, den!"
Conroy answered nothing. It was beyond striving against. He walked to
the rail and flung the thing forth with hysterical violence to the
sea.
The watch going below at four o'clock found him apparently asleep,
with his face turned to the wall. They spoke in undertones, as though
they feared to disturb him, but none of them mentioned the only
matter which all had in mind. They climbed heavily to their bunks,
there to smoke the brief pipe, and then to slumber. Only Slade, who
slept little, would from time to time lean up on one elbow to look
down and across to the still figure which hid its face throughout the
night.
Conroy woke when the watch was called for breakfast by a man who
thrust his head in and shouted. He had slept at last, and now as he
sat up it needed an effort of mind to recall his trouble. He looked
out at his mates, who stood about the place pulling on their clothes,
with sleep still heavy on them. They seemed as usual. It was his turn
to fetch the coffee from the galley, he remembered, and he slipped
out of his bunk to dress and attend to it.
"I won't be a minute," he said to the others, as he dragged on his
trousers.
A shaggy young Swede near the door was already dressed.
"I vill go," he said. "You don't bother," and forthwith slipped out.
The others were looking at him now, glancing with a queer, sharp
interest and turning away when they met his eyes. It was as though he
were a stranger.
"That was a queer thing last night," he said to the nearest.
"Yes," the other agreed, with a kind of haste.
They sat about at their meal, when the coffee had been brought by the
volunteer, under the same constraint. He could not keep silent; he
had to speak and make them answer.
"Where is he?" he asked abruptly.
"On de gratings," he was told. And the Swede who fetched the coffee
added, "Sails is sowin' him up now already."
"We'll see the last of him to-day," said Slade. "He won't kick nobody
again!"
There was a mutter of agreement, and eyes turned on Conroy again.
Slade smiled slowly.
"Yes, he keeck once too many times," said the Greek.
The shaggy young Swede wagged his head. "He t'ink it was safe to kick
Conroy, but it aindt," he observed profoundly. "No, it aindt safe."
"He got vat he asked for. . . . Didn't know vat he go up againdst
. . . No, it aindt--it aindt safe. . . Maybe vi'sh he aindt so handy
mit his feet now."
They were all talking; their mixed words came to Conroy in broken
sentences. He stared at them a little wildly, realizing the fact that
they were admiring him, praising him, and afraid of him. The blood
rose in his face hotly.
"You fellers talk," he began, and was disconcerted at the manner in
which they all fell silent to hear him--"you talk as if I'd killed
him."
"Well! . . . Ach was!"
He faced their smiles, their conciliatory gestures, with a frown.
"You better stop it," he said. "He fell--see? He fell an' stove his
head in. An' any feller that says he didn't----"
His regard traveled from face to face, giving force to his challenge.
"Ve aindt goin' to say nodings!" they assured him mildly. "You don't
need to be scared of us, Conroy."
"I'm not scared," he said, with meaning. "But look out, that's all."
When breakfast was over, it was his turn to sweep up. But there was
almost a struggle for the broom and the privilege of saving him that
trouble. It comforted him and restored him; it would have been even
better but for the presence of Slade, sitting aloft in his bunk,
smiling over his pipe with malicious understanding.
The Villingen was still under reefed upper topsails, walking into the
seas on a taut bowline, with water coming aboard freely. There was
little for the watch to do save those trivial jobs which never fail
on a ship. Conroy and some of the others were set to scrubbing teak
on the poop, and he had a view of the sail-maker at his work on the
gratings under the break of the poop, stitching on his knees to make
the mate presentable for his last passage. The sailmaker was a
bearded Finn, with a heavy, darkling face and the secret eyes of a
faun. He bent over his task, and in his attitude and the slow rhythm
of his moving hand there was a suggestion of ceremonial, of an act
mysterious and ritual.
Half-way through the morning, Conroy was sent for to the cabin, there
to tell his tale anew, to see it taken down, and to sign it. The
captain even asked him if he felt better.
"Thank you, sir," replied Conroy. "It was a shock, findin' him dead
like that."
"Yes, yes," agreed the captain. "I can understand--a great shock.
Yes!"
He was bending over his papers at the table; Conroy smiled over his
bowed head. Returning on deck, he winked to the man at the wheel, who
smiled uncomfortably in return. Later he borrowed a knife to scrape
some spots of paint off the deck; he did not want to spoil the edge
of his own.
They buried the mate at eight bells; the weather was thickening, and
it might be well to have the thing done. The hands stood around,
bareheaded, with the grating in the middle of them, one edge resting
on the rail, the other supported by two men. There was a dark smudge
on the sky up to windward, and several times the captain glanced up
from his book towards it. He read in German slowly, with a dwelling
upon the sonorous passages, and towards the end he closed the book
and finished without its aid.
Conroy was at the foot of the ladder; the captain was above him,
reading mournfully, solemnly, without looking at the men. They were
rigid, only their eyes moving. Conroy collected their glances
irresistibly. When the captain had finished his reading he sighed and
made a sign, lifting his hand like a man who resigns himself. The men
holding the grating tilted it; the mate of the Villingen, with a
little jerk, went over the side.
"Shtand by der tobs'l halliards!" roared the second mate.
Conroy, in the flurry, found himself next to a man of his watch. He
jerked a thumb in the direction of the second mate, who was still
vociferating orders.
"Hark at him!" he said. "Before we're through I'll teach him manners
too."
And he patted his knife.
V