"I needed your help badly. But not the kind or help you would have offered; no, I needed your help in a different way. I needed a catspaw, Roy.
"I was skating on pretty thin ice just about then, Roy, I needed old Baintree's money. I needed Mary to get the money. But Mary was only willing to take me because her father wished her to; and I was heartily sick of playing the saint to stand well with him. Oh, well, I'll tell you—why not? The old hypocrite had a Puritan's sharp eyes, and he had caught me in a slip-up or two, and I knew he was about to tell Mary to break the betrothal. And there was another thing, a little investment I handled for him. He was bound to discover about it shortly, when the payments were due, and—well, you know, Roy, what an absurd attitude he had towards a little slip like that. I was in a rather desperate fix, you see; yes, I really needed your help, Roy.
"Besides there was you, yourself, to be taken care of. You were one of my worries, not a big worry, but still a worry. What if you forgot your pride? What if Mary forgot her pride? Of course, you were in Bellingham, and outward bound; and she was home in Freeport—but who can tell what a woman will do where her heart is concerned? Besides, I hated you, damn you! I was not going to overlook the luck that brought the three of us into the same port at the same time. You had been my catspaw once; why not again?
"So I had you invite me off to dinner. That cozy little dinner, in your own cabin, just you and I, and Stord to wait on us. I bet you never guessed until your trial that your steward was my man, if you guessed it then. Aye, body and soul my man. When I crooked my finger, Stord bent his body.
"Do you remember that dinner, Roy? I bet you do! I crucified you, damn you! You would be brave, you would be gallant, eh? You would congratulate me upon the coming marriage, toast the best man, who had won the race. Oh, I enjoyed your hospitality that night! How you wrenched out the words! You didn't want to talk about Mary, did you? But I made you talk, I made you squirm, eh? And then, when I was sick of your platitudes—just a nod to Stord, and three little drops of chloral in your glass!
"Do you want to know what happened next? I'll lay that you've wondered many a time just what happened after you had so strangely dropped asleep, with your head in your plate. Well, I'll tell you what happened. I sent Stord on the run to Baintree's hotel. He bore a message from you. He told the dear captain that you were ill, on your ship, and that you wished very much to see him. You can guess how the old fool would act in a case like that. A chance to do a good deed, store up treasures in heaven, all that, eh? You might have been a bad man in Freeport, but, you were sick and needed him.
"He came in a hurry, all a-flutter like an old hen. Just as I knew he would come. And as he leaned over you, in your own cabin, I—er—separated him from his temporal worries with an iron belaying pin from your own rail. Then I gave you the clout for luck (it has left a fine scar, I note) and placed the pin on the table. And thus your chief mate discovered you when he came on board, you and your victim, and the weapon you used, just as I planned. And your steward's testimony, and my reluctant admissions, finished you. You see, Roy—neatness and thoroughness!
"I took Stord to sea with me, as my steward. But, unfortunately, he went over the side one dark night, off the Horn. A loose end tucked in, eh, Roy?
"And I'll tuck in other loose ends between now and dawn—you, for instance, and our brave Mister Lynch. I have it already written down for Fitz to copy into the logbook. 'During the fighting, James Lynch, second mate, was stabbed by one of the mutineers; but owing to the darkness and confusion his assailant was not recognized.' That's how the log will read when we bowse into port. And—'During the fighting, the sailor, Newman, attempted to escape from custody, and was shot by the captain.' You see, Roy, everything shipshape! A line for each in the log—and two loose ends tucked in—eliminated!
"You will have some time in which to think it over, before it happens, Roy. You should thank me for that—for giving you something to think about. It will take your mind off your pain, eh? Yes, you need something to think about, for you'll hang there for four or five hours yet. No danger of your sleeping, eh, Roy? Well, keep your ears open and you'll be forewarned. There'll be some shooting on deck. I've gone to a great deal of trouble to bring it about; your shipmates are a gutless crew, Roy, and I had begun to think I could not get a fight out of them. But the swabs are coming aft at the end of the mid-watch. Eight bells in the mid-watch—count the bells, Roy. Eight bells—elimination!