The After House

"And a hanging matter," someone else put in.

"We've got to remember, boys, that this ain't like a crime on land.

We've got the fellow that did it. He's on the boat all right."

There was a stirring among the men, and some of them looked aft to

where, guarded by the Swede Oleson, Singleton was sitting, his head

in his hands.

"And, what's more," Charlie Jones went on, "I'm for putting Leslie

here in charge--for now, anyhow. That's agreeable to you, is it,

Burns?"

"But I don't know anything about a ship," I objected. "I'm willing

enough, but I'm not competent."

I believe the thing had been discussed before I went up, for

McNamara spoke up from the wheel.

"We'll manage that somehow or other, Leslie," he said. "We want

somebody to take charge, somebody with a head, that's all. And

since you ain't, in a manner of speaking, been one of us, nobody's

feelings can't be hurt. Ain't that it, boys?"

"That, and a matter of brains," said Burns.

"But Singleton?" I glanced aft.

"Singleton is going in irons," was the reply I got.

The light was stronger now, and I could see their faces. It was

clear that the crew, or a majority of the crew, believed him guilty,

and that, as far as Singleton was concerned, my authority did not

exist.

"All right," I said. "I'll do the best I can. First of all, I want

every man to give up his weapons. Burns!"

"Aye, aye."

"Go over each man. Leave them their pocket-knives; take everything

else."

The men lined up. The situation was tense, horrible, so that the

miscellaneous articles from their pockets--knives, keys, plugs of

chewing tobacco, and here and there, among the foreign ones, small

combs for beard and mustache unexpectedly brought to light, caused

a smile of pure reaction. Two revolvers from Oleson and McNamara

and one nicked razor from Adams completed the list of weapons we

found. The crew submitted willingly. They seemed relieved to have

some one to direct them, and the alacrity with which they obeyed my

orders showed how they were suffering under the strain of inaction.

I went over to Singleton and put my hand on his shoulder.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Singleton," I said, "but I'll have to ask you for

your revolver."

Without looking at me, he drew it from his hip pocket and held it

out. I took it: It was loaded.

"It's out of order," he said briefly. "If it had been working

right, I wouldn't be here."

I reached down and touched his wrist. His pulse was slow and rather

faint, his hands cold.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," he snarled. "You can get me a belaying-pin and let me at

those fools over there. Turner did this, and you know it as well

as I do!"