Page:The Road to Monterey (1925).pdf/25

 ing forward to add his commands and abuse to the general uproar. In a moment the box was safely heaved to the level near Don Abrahan's feet.

"Who let go his holt on that oar?" the captain demanded, passing his accusing look from face to face.

It was evident in the silence of the men, their averted faces, their dark frowns, that there was no friendliness for the captain among his crew.

"Who was it?" the captain demanded again, his evil temper mounting. He stood with feet set as for a spring, bent forward from the hips, hands fixed before him like a wrestler prepared to engage. "You can't cover it up that way, men, I tell you—you know me, you know my way. I'll fine the butter-fingered dock-loafer that broke that oar ten dollars, and if you don't speak up I'll make it ten dollars apiece!"

"I'm responsible for it, Captain Welliver, as far as there is any responsibility."

The sailor who had missed his footing and precipitated the disaster stepped forward as he spoke. Don Abrahan, bored by the interruption of his business, scornful of the captain's enlargement of a thing so trivial, looked quickly at the speaker, struck by the quality of his word and tone.

The sailor was a man of twenty-three or twenty-five, medium of stature, rather slender, yet nothing about him that suggested weakness or frailty either of body or soul. His bare limbs were smeared with the yellow mud through which he had toiled