his eyes were open.
"Not quite all smashed up yet," he said with a little smile.
Appleby felt almost dizzy with relief, and his voice shook a trifle as he said, "But you are hurt, Chriss?"
"Well," said Niven feebly, though there was a little twinkle in his eyes, "it wouldn't be astonishing if I was, but I think a good lie down will put me right again. There was a big lump of the staysail under me, and I fetched the top of the house on my hands and toes. Couldn't get up just now, however, if I wanted to."
Appleby could think of nothing fitting to say, and patted his comrade's shoulder while he turned his head away. His eyes were a trifle hazy, and he felt that there are a good many things one cannot express in speech.
"The Dutchman?" he said presently.
Niven seemed to shiver, and shook his head. "I don't know. Couldn't take much notice of anything because I felt all in pieces myself just then, but I saw him come down," he said. "He just seemed to crunch up – as if he was an egg."
Lawson, who was sitting on his chest, made a gesture of impatience. "Now you shut up and lie still," he said. "Any one would fancy you had done enough to take a rest." Then he nodded to Appleby. "Get out. It's quietness he wants, and it's not going to make anything any better to remember what happened to the other fellow. I'll keep an eye on him, and you needn't worry."
Appleby, who knew Lawson could be trusted to do this, went out, and it was an hour or two later when he and the rest sat in the house again over a big can of tea which the cook had by some means contrived to supply them with. They still wore streaming oilskins, and the lamp that swung above them cast flickers of smoky radiance across their wet faces, while from outside came a muffled roar of wind and the crash of falling water as the Aldebaran lurched over the great smoking seas. Niven was evidently a little better, and smiled, though his face was awry with pain, when Appleby lifted his shoulders a little and handed him a biscuit soaked in tea.
"It's nice yellow jellies and grapes I'd be eating if I was laid up at home," said he.
"If you don't stop we'll make you," said one of the other lads. "Who has got any business to talk of those things at sea? What did the old man do to you?"
Niven grinned in a sickly fashion. "He asked me where I felt bad, and I told him everywhere," he said. "Then he and the steward pulled the clothes off me and prodded me with their fists. They didn't seem to find anything broken, but I was sore all over, and I'd sooner be whacked with a horse-girth than go through that again."
"Smacked with a horse-girth!" said Lawson, reflectively. "Now I've been kicked – with sea boots – a good many times, but that would be a new sensation. What does it feel like?"
"If you want to know you can ask Appleby," said Niven. "I fancy he could tell you."
Appleby laughed, for he saw his comrade was recovering. "But what about the Dutchman?" he said.
Lawson shook his head. "I only know the old man went forward to look at him, and he's tolerably bad. He came down bang on his shoulder, you see. Did the mate know he had only one arm that was any good to him, Appleby?"
"Yes," said Appleby slowly. "He was there when the man hurt it, and just before he went up I heard him tell him. I saw the mate double up his fist too – and the Dutchman had to go."
There was silence for a moment or two, intensified by the roar of wind, and the lads looked at one another with a curious grimness which seemed out of place there in their young faces.
"If he doesn't get better it's manslaughter, any way," said somebody. "Now we've had almost enough of this. What's to be done, Lawson?"
Lawson stared at the lamp for almost a minute before he answered. "If the man comes round we can't do anything," he said. "Of course we and the men could make a declaration about ill-usage at Vancouver, but the old man would back the mate up and we'd only be quietly sat upon. If the Dutchman dies it would be a little easier. The old man would have to put down all about it in the log, but he'd fix it the nicest way and then get two witnesses – the mate and the second mate – to sign it."
"Would the second mate do it?" said Appleby.
"I think he would have to," said Lawson dryly.
"Well," said one of the other lads, "where do we come in?"
"You," said Lawson, with a little, mirthless laugh, "don't come in at all, but there's one chance yet. When the men are paid off the old man's account of any death on board is read over, and they're asked if it's all correct and if the man was ill-used at all. If they could only stick to one story they'd get a hearing, and the Government would go into the thing."
"That doesn't sound difficult," said Appleby.
Lawson shook his head. "I'm afraid it's more than they could do," he said. "Every man would tell a different tale and get arguing with the rest until nobody could make head or tail of it, and the skipper who says nothing that isn't dragged out of him would come up on top again. Still, of course, there is just a chance of them being listened to, and that's going to make the mate a good deal nastier in the meanwhile."
Niven, who had lain silent, looked over his bunk. "He will not be nasty to me very long. I've had enough of the brute already. One could get ashore at Vancouver."
Lawson glanced at him impatiently. "Better shut up before you're sorry," he said. "There's only one thing to do, and that's to leave the old man to run the mate out quietly. He's a tolerably tough old nigger himself, but I fancy this kind of thing is a little too much for him. As I've told you before, there's very little use kicking about anything when you go to sea."
Then there was once more silence as the unpleasant veracity was borne in upon the rest. Nobody, it seemed, cared very much what became of them, and there was no one they could appeal to. They must take what came, and grin and bear it, however irksome it might be. The knowledge was especially bitter to Niven, who had possibly been made too much of at home, but Appleby had already a vague suspicion that in any walk of life it would be much the same. Every man had rights, he knew, but he had discovered that it is very little use to make speeches about them when they are unobtainable, and generally wiser to wait in silence for an opportunity and then stretch out a firm hand and take them. Some lads find this out early, though there are men who never discover it at all, and these are not infrequently a nuisance to everybody.
CHAPTER VI
A FAIR WIND
Niven, though severely bruised and shaken, recovered rapidly, and one morning a fortnight after his injury sat under the partial shelter of the weather-rail rubbing tar into a long strip of worn-out canvas with his hands. He had more than a suspicion that the canvas would never be used, and sitting still in a bitter wind while he dabbled his stiffened fingers in the sticky mess was far from pleasant, but the mate frequently found him work of that kind to do, and Niven knew that when he gave an order it was not advisable to argue.
Appleby was sitting close beside him similarly occupied, and every now and then a cloud of spray which swept the rail stung their faces and rattled upon their oilskins. Icy water came on board, too, but because they sat well aft they escaped the frothing deluges which poured over the weather bow and sluiced down the slanted deck to lee. Here and there a dripping man scrambled out of the way of them or clung fast to something in the wilder lurches, for the Aldebaran was still hammering to windward under scanty sail.
There was, however, clear, cold sunlight, and the wet canvas swayed across a patch of blue, while the lads could see the froth of the rollers
