Adams and McNamara stood off from the others, their faces
not unfriendly, but clearly differing from the decision. Charlie
Jones, who, by reason of long service and a sort of pious control he
had in the forecastle, was generally spokesman for the crew, took a
step or two toward me.
"We'll not do it, boy," he said. "We think we know a man when we
see one, as well as having occasion to know that you're white all
through. And we're not inclined to set the talk of women against
what we think best to do. So you stick to your job, and we're
back of you."
In spite of myself, I choked up. I tried to tell them what their
loyalty meant to me; but I could only hold out my hand, and, one by
one, they came up and shook it solemnly.
"We think," McNamara said, when, last of all, he and Adams came up,
"that it would be best, lad, if we put down in the log-book all that
has happened last night and to-day, and this just now, too. It's
fresh in our minds now, and it will be something to go by."
So Burns and I got the log-book from the captain's cabin. The axe
was there, where we had placed it earlier in the day, lying on the
white cover of the bed. The room was untouched, as the dead man had
left it--a collar on the stand, brushes put down hastily, a
half-smoked cigar which had burned a long scar on the wood before
it had gone out.
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