“I want you to know Mr. Jack Gorham. He is the man who conquered that giant of a negro. Captain O’Shea says it was one of the finest things he ever saw.”
Gorham, a modest, shrinking soul, looked acutely uncomfortable and protested:
“I had to get him. He fetched me a couple of clips, but I feel pretty spry. I’ll be ready to hop ashore and perforate them Spanish officers at a thousand per.”
Oddly enough, Miss Hollister was no longer terrified by the presence of these men of war. Since meeting Johnny Kent she had suffered a sea-change. In the face of the veteran soldier she was able to read that same quality of respectful admiration. She had been vouchsafed a glimpse of the real spirit of this singular voyage. It was pure romance, reincarnated from the age when the world was young. She had been permitted to sail with men who were living an Odyssey, a saga, but they knew it not. She thought of Johnny Kent in his bunk, and now she looked at Jack Gorham, commonplace, unlettered, uncouth, and listened while Nora repeated the story of the fight with Jiminez. The soldier wriggled uneasily. His embarrassment was painful. When questioned he could only repeat:
“Well, I just had to get him. That’s all there was to it.”
“But you did not have to risk your life,” persisted Nora. “Captain O’Shea was ready with his whole crew to overpower the man.”
“The captain wanted to tackle him, but of course I couldn’t stand for that,” patiently explained Gorham.
“Why did you do it?” asked Miss Hollister.
“I guess it was what you might call a question of duty,” he drawled.
“I have heard nothing else,” was the spinster’s wondering comment. “And yet you are all breaking the laws of your country. My standards of right and wrong seem all topsy-turvy.”