your revolver."

Without looking at me, he drew it from his hip pocket and held it
out. I took it: It was loaded.

"It's out of order," he said briefly. "If it had been working
right, I wouldn't be here."

I reached down and touched his wrist. His pulse was slow and rather
faint, his hands cold.

"Is there anything I can do for you?"

"Yes," he snarled. "You can get me a belaying-pin and let me at
those fools over there. Turner did this, and you know it as well
as I do!"

I slid his revolver into my pocket, and went back to the men.
Counting Williams and the cook and myself, there were nine of us.
The cook I counted out, ordering him to go to the galley and
prepare breakfast. The eight that were left I divided into two
watches, Burns taking one and I the other. On Burns's watch were
Clarke, McNamara, and Williams; on mine, Oleson, Adams, and Charlie
Jones.

It was two bells, or five o'clock. Burns struck the gong sharply
as an indication that order, of a sort, had been restored. The
rising sun was gleaming on the sails; the gray surface of the sea
was ruffling under the morning breeze. From the galley a thin
stream of smoke was rising. Some of the horror of the night went