"This ain't the sort of ship for a woman to be on," he remarked.
"I am quite capable of taking care of myself."
The mate made no answer, and, realising that his forebodings were not meeting with any sympathy, rose slowly from the step and yawned.
"Guess I'll turn in for a spell," he said; "mine's the middle watch."
She made no attempt to detain him, and he lounged away towards the second-mate's cabin to get some sleep before going on duty.
The brief twilight of the tropics had given place to night, and, though there was no moon, the sky was ablaze with myriads of brilliant stars, some in clusters like groups of sparkling gems, others strewn, as it were, promiscuously over the translucent blue dome and a few isolated and outstanding by reason of their wonderful brilliance. The cool night-air was filled with a subtle, intoxicating perfume, and the sea was like a vast steel mirror save for the expanding streak of bubbling, foam-flecked water in the steamer's wake. And the only sounds to be heard were the steady, rhythmic beat of the engines and the gurgling swish of the water as it swept past the ship's sides, clear, cool, and enticing. The mast-head light shone out steady and bright like a star of enormous magnitude and on either beam the navigating lights cast red or green reflections on the placid sea.
Dora Fletcher retired to her cabin, where she sat watching, through an open port, the beauty and wonder of the starlit night. She had extinguished the lamp the better to enjoy this and the sense of peace which the darkness induced. Presently, however, she turned away with a sigh to prepare for bed, and, as she did so, glanced carelessly out of the port which looked across the deck towards the foc'sle. The door of the latter was shut, but through the chinks a yellow ray of light penetrated, and, listening intently, she caught the murmur of voices.
For a moment she forgot all about the beauty and peacefulness of the night, and her thoughts turned to the lugubrious forebodings of the mate. On such a night, and under such conditions, it was almost impossible to imagine a scene such as he had hinted; impossible to picture the silent and deserted decks aswarm with savage, bloodthirsty men, intent upon murder and destruction. Yet she, who had been afloat before most children have left the nursery, knew that it was possible, just as she knew that it was only the iron mastery of one man which kept this horde of ruffians in check. Since babyhood, almost, she had listened to tales of mutiny and crime on the high seas; had sailed with men who had witnessed such things, and some who even boasted of the parts they had played therein.
Suddenly she was roused from the vague, waking dream into which she had fallen by the sound of a man's voice raised almost to a shout. It dropped abruptly as though the speaker had suddenly recollected himself and was conscious of having committed an indiscretion. It was evident, however, that something unusual was going on in the foc'sle which, ordinarily, should have been silent till the relief watch was routed out and the off-going watch tumbled in. After a while she again heard voices, and then sounds that seemed to suggest subdued quarrelling. These sounds again died down, all was silent, and soon afterwards the light in the foc'sle was extinguished.
For some moments the girl lingered at the port, wondering what the commotion for'ad portended, wondering also whether the officer on the bridge had noticed it. The chances were that he had not, for the noise of the engines coming through the gratings would probably have drowned the sounds in the foc'sle, and the fact that it had been lighted up was not in itself suspicious; a dim light was always kept burning there.