It might have been an ugly business; there was a sense in the minds of his fellows of something sickening about to happen; but the mate had finished with Conroy. The youth came staggering and crying down the ladder, with tears and blood befouling his face, and stumbled as his foot touched the deck. The older man, Slade, saved him from falling, and held him by the upper arm with one gnarled, toil- roughened hand, peering at him through the early morning gloom.
"Kicked you when you was down, didn't he?" he demanded abruptly.
"Yes," blubbered Conroy, shivering and dabbing at his face. "With his sea-boots, too, the—the——"
Slade shook him. "Don't make that noise or he might kick you spine more," he advised grimly. "You better go now an' swab that blood off your face."
"Yes," agreed Conroy tremulously, and Slade let him go.
The elder man watched him move forward on shambling and uncertain feet, with one hand pressed to his flank, where the mate's kick was still an agony. Slade was frowning heavily, with a tincture of thought in his manner, as though he halted on the brink of some purpose.
"Conroy," he breathed, and started after the other.
The younger man turned. Slade again put his hand on Conroy's arm.
"Say," he said, breathing short, "is that a knife in your belt?"
Conroy felt behind him, uncomprehending, for the sheath-knife, which he wore, sailor fashion, in the middle of his back.