"By God, I never go on deck but I'm scared o' my life!" swore one of the stiffs, named Green. And he voiced the common feeling.
I was, of course, much concerned for the parson. I went into the port foc'sle to look at him—and he looked bad, lying there unconscious. The squareheads had washed his face, but had not ventured to touch his arm. His face was in a shocking state, and I feared his body might be broken, as was Nils' body. He was much worse off than I; for he had not my iron muscles, to withstand hard knocks, nor my skill in rough-and-tumble fighting, which had enabled me to protect the vital parts of my body.
"We'll have to get him aft, where the lady can attend to him—or else get her for'ard," I declared.
"No chance," answered Boston.
"If we take him aft dey ban kill him," asserted one of the squareheads.
"She can't come for'ard; she's locked in her room," said another.
"How do you know that?" I cried.
"Cockney says so. He was there when the skipper locked her in," said
Boston.
For an instant I forgot Holy Joe, and his evil plight.
"What yarn did that Cockney bring for'ard with him?" I demanded.