Dan'l wagged his head. "See that that's so," he said. "If any ructions start in the fo'c's'le, I'll send Brander forward to quiet you. You'll not be wanting Brander to lay hand on you again."
Slatter's eyes shifted hungrily; he went on his way with quick feet, and Dan'l watched him go, and his eyes set hard.
That was at dusk. Toward ten that night, when Brander was in his hammock under the boathouse, one of the men howled, forward, and there was the sound of scuffling in the fo'c's'le. Dan'l was aft, waiting.... He called to Brander:
"Go forward and put a stop to that yammering, Mr. Brander."
Brander slid out of his hammock, assented quietly, and started forward along the deck. Dan'l watched his dark figure in the night until it was lost in the waist of the Sally.... He waited a moment.... Brander must be at the fo'c's'le scuttle by now....
Came cries, blows, a tumultuous outbreak. The Sally rang with the storm of battle. Then, abruptly, quiet....
At that sudden-falling quiet, Dan'l turned pale in spite of himself; he licked his lips. The thing was done....
He ran forward, virtuously ready to take a hand.