"I think so, sir--Mister LeVere explained that to me."

"Oh, he did? Well, he must have failed to make clear the fact that we
enforce discipline aboard. The next time you neglect to jump at an
order, you are going to taste the cat. You understand me? You speak
Spanish?"

"Yes, sir; I lived two years in Cuba."

"I see; well now, do you happen to have any idea who I am?"

"No, sir--only that you are one of the officers."

"Then I will enforce the information on your mind so that you are not
liable to forget; also the fact that hereafter you are to jump when I
speak. I am the first officer, and in command at present. Pedro Estada
is my name. Now, you damned English whelp, remember that!"

Before I even suspected what was coming, his unexpected action as
swift as the leap of a poised tiger, he struck me fairly between the
eyes with the butt of a pistol, and I went down sprawling onto the
deck. For a moment I seemed, in spite of the viciousness of the blow,
to retain a spark of consciousness, for I knew he kicked me savagely
with his heavy sea boots; I felt the pain, and even heard the words,
and curses, accompanying each brutal stroke.

"You drunken dog! You whelp of a sea wolf! You English cur! Take
that--damn you! And that! You'll not forget me for awhile, That's
it--squirm, I like to see it. When you wake up again, you'll remember
Pedro Estada, How did that feel, you grunting pig? Here, LeVere,