"Who gave you that?" he yelled. "Denman?"
"Yes—Denman," answered Sampson.
"He lied. I did nothing of the—"
"You lie yourself, you dog. You're showing on your chin the marks of Denman's fist."
"You did that just now," answered Forsythe, fingering a small, bleeding bruise.
"I didn't hit you. I choked you. Denman knocked you out."
"Well," answered Forsythe, forgetting the first accusation in the light of this last, "it was a lucky blow in the dark. He couldn't do it in the daylight."
"Self-convicted," said Sampson, quietly.
Then, for a matter of ten minutes, the air in the close compartment might have smelled sulphurous to one strange to forecastle discourse. Forsythe, his back toward them, listened quietly while they called him all the names, printable and unprintable, which angry and disgusted men may think of.
But when it had ended—when the last voice had silenced and the last man gone to the water faucet for a drink before turning in, Forsythe said: