dead woman remained on the deck. The skipper was in a black mood. He
knew his people well enough to see that this unfortunate affair would
weaken his power among them. They would say that the saints were
against his enterprises and ambitions; that his luck was gone; that he
was a bungler and so not fit to give orders to full-grown men. He
understood all this as if he could hear their grumbled words--nay, as
well as if he could read the very hearts of them. He turned to Nick
Leary. Nick had already bandaged his face with a piece of sail-cloth.

"Where bes the medicine-chest? Was it sent aloft?" asked the skipper.

"Nay, skipper, 'twas left below--in the captain's berth," replied Nick;
his voice shook from pain and loss of blood.

"Ye bes cut desperate bad," said the skipper. "I'll go fetch the
medicine-chest an' fix ye up wid plaster an' dacent bandages. Who says
his leg bes broke? Ye, Bill Lynch? I'll fix yer leg, b'y, when I git the
chest."

He looked up at the crowd on the cliff and roared to them to lower away
some brandy for the wounded men.

"An' step lively, damn ye, or I'll be comin' up to ye wid a bat in me
hand," he concluded, knowing that it was not the time to display any
sign of weakness. Then he went down the companion, entered the water,
which had drained out with the ebbing tide until it reached no higher
than to his waist, and waded aft to the lost captain's berth. He felt
decidedly uneasy, shot glances to right and left at the narrow doors of
the state-rooms and experienced a sensation of creeping cold at the
roots of his hair; but he forced himself onward. He soon regained the