And there were other and more ominous tales: tales of Boguslav and Katmai, of islands that came and went overnight, of oil-soaked whalers caught under descending showers of hot ash and burned to the water's edge. There were tales of seal-poaching, of poachers who fought each other, of Yankees who fought Japs; and these tales verged upon the personal. Nods and winks were interchanged when Bo'sun Joe told about "men he had known", or when black Manuel Mendez related exploits of which "he had heard". Tom Dennis gained some fine material for feature-stories—but it worried him. He began to realize that these men among whom he had fallen were, so far as their natures were concerned, no better than pirates.
Then, upon the evening of the second day, came the affair which proved that all restraint was now loosed.
Darkness was falling, and having no particular longing for the society of the Missus and Pontifex, in the stern cabin, Dennis was in the waist near the try-works, listening while Corny spun a whaling yarn to the watch. The yarn was broken into by a sudden choking cry, followed by an excited call in Portuguese. The voice was that of Manuel Mendez who would take the deck from Mr. Leman in a few moments.
At sound of the cry, Corny whipped out his knife and was gone like a shadow. Dennis was the first to follow, darting after the black boat-steerer toward the windward side of the deck, whence the voice had come.
An instant later, Dennis had turned the corner of the try-works. What had happened he could not tell; but he saw the huge figure of Manuel Mendez hanging to the mizzen-shrouds, groaning faintly. Close by, the insignificant little cook was facing the glittering knife of Corny—facing it with bare hands.
Corny, growling savage Cape Verde oaths, leaped. Swift as light was Frenchy, darting in and out again, sweeping the knife aside, striking catlike. Corny staggered back.
At that instant Mr. Leman swept upon the scene, his grey wisps of hair flying, his long arms flailing. Frenchy, not hearing him, was knocked headlong into the galley and fell with a tremendous crashing of pots and pans.
"He keel Manuel!" cried out Corny, retreating from the second mate and putting up his knife. "He mos' get my eyes—ah, de poor Manuel!"
The giant figure of the bearded black fell limply. Dennis retreated, feeling sick; for Manuel Mendez had been stabbed with his own knife—after his eyes had been gouged away. Even for sea-fighting, there was something horrible about it.
Later, Dennis came upon the steward and two of the miserable white sailors talking near the forecastle scuttle. The steward was describing what had happened.