Manuel, throw this sot into the forecastle. Curse you, here is one
more to jog your memory."

The heavy, iron-shod boot landed full in my face, and every sensation
left me as I sank limply back, bloody and unconscious.




CHAPTER XII

A FRIEND IN THE FORECASTLE


I slowly and regretfully opened my eyes, aroused perhaps by a
trampling of feet on the deck above, to find myself lying in an upper
bunk of the forecastle. I was partially covered by a ragged blanket,
but for a few moments remained unable to comprehend the situation. Yet
the vivid memory soon returned, stimulated no doubt by the continuous
aching of my body where Estada had so brutally kicked me with his
heavy boots. The first recollection of that assault brought with it a
dull anger, strangely commingled with a thought of Dorothy Fairfax,
and a sense of my own duty. The heavy rolling of the bark clearly
evidenced that we were already at sea, and bucking against a high
wind. Occasionally a monster wave broke over the cats-head, and struck
thunderingly on the deck above me, the whole vessel trembling to the
shock. Oilskins hung to the deck beams, swung here and there at
strange angles, while the single slush lantern dangled back and forth
like the pendulum of a clock.