"Who?"
"I couldn't see. It was too dark, and he cleared out on the run. Ask the Nigger."
When we had belayed, the watch was relieved, and Newman went aft to the wheel. Lynch kept the rest of us on the jump, as ever, and I had no chance to steal a word with the Nigger when he came forward. At four bells I relieved the wheel. I found Captain Swope and the mate pacing the poop with their heads together. As I took over the wheel, Newman whispered to me, "Keep your weather eye lifted for squalls, Jack!"
I did not need his warning; the mere presence of either of the pair was sufficient to keep any sailorman wide awake and watchful of his p's and q's while steering her. There was nothing uncommon about the Old Man's presence; he was in the habit of appearing on the poop at all hours of the night, though he never went forward. But for the mate to give up his sleep in fair weather was unprecedented. There was something in the carriage and attitude of the two, as they slowly paced fore and aft, or stood at the break staring forward, that gave me a feeling of impending disaster. Aye, I could smell trouble coming.
Captain Swope could smell it, too. That is why he walked the deck with Fitzgibbon by his side. I could feel the alertness of the man. Yankee Swope had his finger upon the pulse of his ship. A mutiny, however sudden, would not catch the master of the Golden Bough napping. That is what I thought as I watched him, and Boston's vague scheme became harebrained in my eyes.
The second mate was seldom aft during the two hours I stood at the wheel. The times he did appear, he engaged in conversation with the Old Man, beyond my hearing. But near midnight be clumped aft hurriedly, bringing the tradesmen with him. The strollers happened to be near me at the moment he appeared, and he came towards them, speaking.
"Well, sir—he's gone," he said.
So I knew that Nils was dead.
"Very good," said Swope. "And the hands?"
"All quiet, sir."