"Had important business to look after ashore," replied Stanley. In bending over the table to light a cigarette at a candle, he looked keenly at his host.
"And there was another reason—a damn sight better one," he said, quietly.
He sank back in his chair and blew a thin thread of smoke.
"We were in Bahia with fish," he continued, "and I got foul of one of the hands—for the last time. The memory of his big face makes me feel ill to this day."
"What!" exclaimed Hemming. "Do you mean to tell me you let one of the crew lay you away?"
"Not quite," laughed Stanley, harshly. He touched the scar on his chin. "That's what he gave me—with a knuckle-duster," he explained, "and what I gave him he took ashore to the hospital. His messmates were not particularly fond of him, but, for all that, I considered it wise to live quietly ashore for awhile."
"You must have handled him rather roughly," remarked the Englishman.
"I killed him," said Stanley. "I beat the life out of him with my bare fists."
"You beast," said Hemming, his face blanched with horror and disgust.
"Oh, cheer up, old Sunday-school teacher," replied Stanley, good-naturedly. "I had reason enough for killing the slob. He hit me first, for one thing. Then there was a girl in the case—a little brown girl, who wouldn't look at a dirty brute like him, for all that he told to the contrary. He was ship's bully until he got aft to the cabin."