The After House

I smiled down at him cheerfully.

"Williams," I said, "you are a coward--a mean, white-livered

coward. You have skulked in the after house, behind women, when

there was man's work to do. If I wash that deck, it will be with

you as a mop."

He blustered something about speaking to Mr. Turner and seeing that

I did the work I was brought on board to do, and, seeing Turner's

eye on us, finished his speech with an ugly epithet. My nerves were

strained to the utmost: lack of sleep and food had done their work.

I was no longer in command of the Ella; I was a common sailor, ready

to vent my spleen through my fists.

I knocked him down with my open hand.

It was a barbarous and a reckless thing to do. He picked himself

up and limped away, muttering. Turner had watched the scene with

his cold blue eyes, and the little doctor with his near-sighted ones.

"A dangerous man, that!" said the doctor.

"Dangerous and intelligent," replied Turner. "A bad combination!"

It was late that night when the Ella anchored in the river at

Philadelphia. We were not allowed to land. The police took charge

of ship, crew, and passengers. The men slept heavily on deck, except

Burns, who developed a slight fever from his injury, and moved about

restlessly.

It seemed to me that the vigilance of the officers was exerted

largely to prevent an escape from the vessel, and not sufficiently

for the safety of those on board. I spoke of this, and a guard was

placed at the companionway again. Thus I saw Elsa Lee for the last

time until the trial.

She was dressed, as she had been in the afternoon, in a dark cloth

suit of some sort, and I did not see her until I had spoken to the

officer in charge. She turned, at my voice, and called me to join

her where she stood.

"We are back again, Leslie."

"Yes, Miss Lee."

"Back to--what? To live the whole thing over again in a courtroom!

If only we could go away, anywhere, and try to forget!"

She had not expected any answer, and I had none ready. I was

thinking--Heaven help me--that there were things I would not forget

if I could: the lift of her lashes as she looked, up at me; the few

words we had had together, the day she had told me the deck was not

clean; the night I had touched her hand with my lips.

"We are to be released, I believe," she said, "on our own--some

legal term; I forget it."

"Recognizance, probably."

"Yes. You do not know law as well as medicine?"

"I am sorry--no; and I know very little medicine."

"But you sewed up a wound!"