Suddenly, he recoiled, as a shadow as light as gossamer brushed past his feet. He laughed nervously. It was the ship's cat searching for its nightly feast of flying fish that had fluttered out their life against the deckhouse.
Again he turned to the dim radiance of the wake. Straining his eyes downward, he was aware that an undercurrent of expectancy had quickened his pulse. He drew in his breath sharply. Yes—there it was, almost directly below him. Stealthily gliding along to one side of the creaming foam was a long sinister shadow, its dorsal fin cutting the surface into trembling showers of misty light.
Tod stared, immovable. That lithe, furtive brute, outlined in blue flame as it trailed along behind them, at once became the symbol of all his troubles, all his fears. It was uncanny, this feeling that beat oppressively upon him. Let Tom Jarvis laugh at the sailors' superstition. The men were right. They knew.
He crept away noiselessly. Eight bells was sounding from the bridge and then again, like an echo, from the forecastle head. On the forward deck he met the stokers, their sweat rags about their necks, going toward the fire-room fiddley for their watch below. With a questioning glance, Tod paused. They filed by without a word.
Tod approached a heavy-set Italian who, naked to the waist, stood at the casing, waiting his turn. "How's the patient, Tony?" the boy asked in a low tone. "Any better?"
Tony the Wop drew his mouth into a snarl, as he fixed on Tod a sullen glare. "Better! Dio cane! He's dead."
"Dead!"
"Yeh. Five minutes ago."
He turned and, plunging into the fiddley, began his descent to the inferno below deck. The muffled drum of his shoes on the iron ladder echoed like the tumultuous beat of Tod's heart.
CHAPTER II
THE ENMITY OF RED MITCHELL
NEIL MORAN! Neil Moran!" Someone from a great distance was calling the name. "Neil Moran! Neil Moran!"
Tod awoke with a start. It was Sunday and mid-afternoon. Through the open port above his bunk, a light breeze fanned his brow; the air was already-redolent with the smell of the tropics. He listened for a moment, wondering. Merging rhythmically into the pulse of the steamer, the ship's bell was sounding the hours; the low swish of the water from the steamer's bows was audible. Then voices near him resumed their conversation and a name seemed to leap toward him through the thick, hot atmosphere of the forecastle.
"Neil Moran. Yeh, that's the guy." It was Red Mitchell of the Black Gang who spoke.
"On the Panama, huh? And 'e got the money, did 'e?" asked Toppy.
"Yes; I heard the mate tellin' the skipper 'bout it last night. The feller got away in Bordeaux—some port! Went to Paris, I guess."
"The wise bloke! Wot a time 'e'll 'ave in gay Paree!"
Red's voice dropped to a whisper. "Yeh—and d'you know what Hawkes was wonderin'? Well, if this kid here is any relation to that guy. His name's Moran, too."
"Blimey! I didn't know that."
Their voices droned on in a steady murmur. Tod, raising himself on one elbow, felt a tightening of his heart. So Neil's story was known on board the ship! Without trial, he had been judged and found guilty; he was condemned at once as a criminal. The boy's face flushed; anger surged into his consciousness. He wanted to jump from his bunk and give Red Mitchell the lie, but caution told him of its futility. Sheila Murray had implored him to go, to remain unknown, to get as much information as possible. And see what had already happened! Hawkes had probably asked Red to find out if he was any relation to Neil Moran. They wouldn't find out from him! He wouldn't tell —not yet.
Wiping the sweat from his brow, he rose. The men were grouped about the forecastle, reading, smoking, playing cards.
"Where ye goin', mitey?" asked the little Londoner, from his bunk.
"On deck to do some washing," Tod said, momentarily wondering why only Nelson and the boatswain ever took the pains to wash their clothes and hang them on the line stretched between the forecastle bulkheads.
Red Mitchell turned away his face, with its film of coal dust visible about the ears, and spat on the floor disgustedly. "Ain't that like the kid, now?" he whined. "Always tryin' t' git away from us fo'c's'le fellers. What's the matter with him, I asks yuh? He don't talk no more t' us. He don't like our sassiety. Ain't I right, now?"
"Blimey! He thinks 'e's a toff. And 'im—mess boy!"
Tod finished rolling a blanket, then turned. "It's stifling down here," he said, "and a fellow's got to wash up once in a while, hasn't he?"
"Yeh, he don't like our sassiety," went on Red, his little rat-like face screwed into a grin. "He don't talk with no one but the cook."
"And not much with him. We're always too busy to talk in the galley."
"Oh, yuh are! Well, why don't yuh talk to men as does a man's work—not to a ship's cook?"
Tod's eyes kindled. His voice was tremulous with emotion. "He's more of a man than you, Red Mitchell. If you hadn't whined to the mate so much that night of the storm, Jarvis might have saved the stoker in time."
"Oh, is that so!" Red climbed from the bunk and eyed the boy with ferocity. "Mark my words, mister, yuh gotta take that back—see?"
"Blast yer hide, if the kid ain't got guts!" put in Toppy. "Yer know yerself, Red, that the kid ain't far wrong. I arsks yer now, is 'e?" He threw back his head and laughed loudly.
Red Mitchell turned his sullen face upward for a moment. Suppressed anger played about the corners of his wide mouth. "Pipe down, yer lousy lime-juicer!" he snapped. "I'm goin' to' tend t' this kid here, right now."
"Oh, you are!" laughed Toppy. "Well, you better watch out, fer you ain't much bigger than 'e is, Red —and you know you don't always like an even match."
"Shut yer jaw, or yuh'll swaller a fly!" Red whirled and faced Tod. "I'm goin' ter wipe th' dirty floor up with yuh, kid—understan'?" As he spoke, his long pale chin shot forward; the pupils of his eyes narrowed to mere pinpoints.
Tod let his blanket drop back into his bunk. He was in for it now. Why had he been so headstrong! He was dimly aware that Swede Jorgenson across the way was gazing at him in wide-eyed concern; that back by the companion the boatswain and Chips the carpenter were silent with attention. There would be no help from them, Tod knew. They were waiting to see what the new mess boy was made of.
Red Mitchell let a laugh hiss through his teeth. "Ah, so youse is gettin' ready, eh? Well, stamp around like a little sea horse—it won't do yuh no good. I know all about yuh, Mister Moran. And I know all about yer family, too. Thieves! That's what they are. Thieves!"
"You lie, Red Mitchell!" Tod challenged.
"Oh, I did get it right, then, didn't I! Yeh, it hurts, don't it? But yuh know as how it's the truth. Neil Moran—purser on the Panama. Jumped ship at Bordeaux because he had to. Oh, yer from a nice family, yuh are, Mister Moran."
"Liar! Coward!" Tod's fist shot forward. It caught his tormentor on the cheek.
Red Mitchell sprang back. Surprise shone in his eyes. His lips snarled over his uneven teeth.
"Attaboy!" yelled a voice. "Wade in, kid!"
"The little devil! Who'd a thunk it!"
A volley of curses came from Red's mouth. Head down, he rushed blindly like a bull. At the same time his right arm drove forward. Instinctively Tod stepped aside. Red's blow crashed wildly through the air.
Jeers came from the spectators. "Ain't this little red rooster the fighter, though!"
"Blimey, wot a knock-out!"
Tod, balancing upon the balls of his feet, waited, breathless. There was worse coming, he knew. Red was larger, heavier, more powerful than he, himself; but anger for the moment had the better of him. Sheer hate does not help one to fight. "I must keep cool," thought Tod, biting his lips. "He's a coward. I know it Cool—cool!"