"Who is getting the best of it?"
"Swanson, sir. He has Riley down, and is beating him over the head with a tin plate."
Looking down into the forecastle I could see Swanson stretched out with Riley standing over him, a marline-spike in his hand, cursing and swearing.
"Bad luck to you for a big squarehead. It's trying to tear me good eye out, you are. Mother of God, look at me tin plate that he bate me with, it is all crumbled in. Sure and I can't use that agin, and divil another this side of San Francisco."
"Riley," said I, "have you killed this man?"
"Begorra, sir, me intintions was well-meanin'. I broke me spike on him."
"Turn him over," I commanded, "and see if there is any life in him."
"Now, throw some water on him."
"The divil a drop will I throw on him, sir, but if you will say the word, I'll pitch him into the sea."
In a few minutes Swanson came to, terribly bruised about the head, and no more fight in him.