"I think that's so."

"Can you wonder, then, that Lord Howe didn't acknowledge them? But I'm
still sure he acted promptly. He's a big enough friend of the sailor to
waste no time before doing his turn."

Ferens shook his head morosely.

"That may be," he said; "but the petitions were sent weeks ago, and
there's no sign from Lord Howe. He was at Bath for gout. My idea is he
referred them to the admiral commanding at Portsmouth, and was told that
behind the whole thing is conspiracy--French socialism and English
politics. I give you my word there's no French agent in the fleet,
and if there were, it wouldn't have any effect. Our men's grievances
are not new. They're as old as Cromwell."

Suddenly a light of suspicion flashed into Ferens's face.

"You're with us, aren't you? You see the wrongs we've suffered, and how
bad it all is! Yet you haven't been on a voyage with us. You've only
tasted the life in harbour. Good God, this life is heaven to what we
have at sea! We don't mind the fightin'. We'd rather fight than eat."
An evil grin covered his face for a minute. "Yes, we'd rather fight than
eat, for the stuff we get to eat is hell's broil, God knows! Did you
ever think what the life of the sailor is, that swings at the top of a
mast with the frost freezin' his very soul, and because he's slow, owin'
to the cold, gets twenty lashes for not bein' quicker? Well, I've seen
that, and a bad sight it is. Did you ever see a man flogged? It ain't a
pretty sight. First the back takes the click of the whip like a damned
washboard, and you see the ridges rise and go purple and red, and the man