The watch on deck had surged forward to the capstan, and some of the watch below were climbing up through the booby hatch. Others were gathered about the form of the sailor who had been in the Frisco room. He lay across the soiled planks of the forecastle, his arms stretched out, his legs extended and resting on the edge of a lower bunk.
Stirling brushed aside the seamen who had gathered about the booby hatch. The Ice Pilot descended backward and stood in the gloom of the forecastle. A single electric globe was hung over a molasses barrel at the heel of the foremast. Its light was far too pale to bring out the details.
"What happened?" asked Stirling, grimly.
A dock rat, who had been shamming sickness during the voyage, thrust out a frowsy head from the forepeak and said: "The crew beat him up. They say he's a government spy. They say he's goin' to queer the skipper's game with th' seals. He looks it—he does!"
Stirling stooped and felt of the sailor's wrist. He examined a bruise on the right temple then straightened and glanced up through the booby hatch toward Cushner.
"Go aft," he said, "and tell Mr. Marr to give you the medicine chest. Tell him that——What does this fellow call himself?"
"Eagan," said the dock rat; "Mike Eagan, so he says, Mr. Stirling."
"Tell Mr. Marr that a seaman named Eagan was struck by a block. Don't tell him what happened—yet. I'm going to look out for Eagan! If he represents the United States he has got to be protected north of 53° as well as south of that latitude!"
Cushner hurried aft and mounted the lee poop steps.