And so they passed the night, until, just as a lighter gray shone in the east, he noticed that one of the red lamps at the signal yard had gone out. As the lights were still necessary, he went forward to lower them; but, just as he was about to mount the bridge stairs, a crashing blow from two heavy fists sent him headlong and senseless to the deck.
When he came to, he was bound hand and foot as he had bound the men—with neckerchiefs—and lay close to the forward funnel, with the whole thirteen, Jenkins and all, looking down at him. But Jenkins was not speaking. Forsythe, searching Denman's pockets, was doing all that the occasion required.
CHAPTER XVII
When Sampson had entered the forecastle after his rescue by Denman, he found a few of his mates in their bunks, the rest sitting around in disconsolate postures, some holding their aching heads, others looking indifferently at him with bleary eyes. The apartment, long and triangular in shape, was dimly lighted by four deadlights, two each side, and for a moment Sampson could not distinguish one from another.
"Where's my bag?" he demanded, generally. "I want dry clothes."
He groped his way to the bunk he had occupied, found his clothes bag, and drew out a complete change of garments.
"Who's got a knife?" was his next request; and, as no one answered, he repeated the demand in a louder voice.
"What d'you want of a knife?" asked Forsythe, with a slight snarl.
"To cut your throat, you hang-dog scoundrel," said Sampson, irately. "Forsythe, you speak kindly and gently to me while we're together, or I'll break some o' your small bones. Who's got a knife?"
"Here's one, Sampson," said Hawkes, offering one of the square-bladed jackknives used in the navy.