weak flesh scorned the torture, because of the strong, pure faith in
the man's soul. There were Blackie and Boston, their rat-hearts
steeled to courage by lust of gold, their rascally, seductive tongues
welding into a dangerous unit the mob of desperate, broken stiffs who
inhabited the foc'sle. There were Lynch and Fitzgibbon, the buckos,
living up to their grim code; and the Knitting Swede, that prince of
crimps, who put most of us into the ship. There was myself, with my
childish vanity, and petty ambitions. There was the lady, the
beautiful, despairing lady aft, wife of the infamous brute who ruled
us. There was Cockney, the gutless swab, whose lying words nearly had
Newman's life. And last, and chiefly, there was the man with the scar,
he who called himself 'Newman,' man of mystery, who came like the
fabled knight, killed the beast who held the princess captive, and led
her out of bondage. And I helped him; and saw the shanghaied parson
marry them, there on the bloody deck.

"Stuff for a yarn--eh? But just life, and living. By George, it was
mighty strenuous living, too! And yet, well as I know this tale I
lived in, I am at a loss how to commence telling it. You know, sir,
this is where you writing folk have at disadvantage the chaps who only
live their stories--you see the yarn from the beginning to the end, we
see but those chapters in which Fate makes us characters. The
beginning, the end, the plot--all are beyond our ken. If indeed there
is a beginning, or end, or plot to a story one lives."

"Every story must have a beginning, a middle, and an end," began the
writing guy, sonorously. "Now I----"

Just then I leaned over and placed my number nine brogan firmly upon
that writing guy's kid-clad foot, and held him in speechless agony for