Red rushed upon him again. This time there was no stepping aside. They clenched. Blows from his opponent's right fist, swift, terrific, landed in the small of his back. Red's breath, warm and faintly sour, was on his neck; the red hair brushed his eyes. Tod gasped. His arms were powerless, and those thumping blows came raining upon him in a steady succession.
"Wot's this yer makin', Red! Kidney stew?"
"Yeh, git a knife and cut 'em out."
"Oh, Gord! That coal-passer ain't a fighter— he's a butcher!"
"Hold on there, Red." The boatswain's voice struck Tod's ear as a far-off sound. "Cut it, you fellers. No fightin' in the fo'c's'le! It won't do. Loosen! Quit the clinchin'."
The boatswain put his arms between the two figures who were struggling, swaying across the deck.
"Git away, bose," scowled Red. "You jist leave this to me t' finish."
"No fightin' now, Red. And what's more, the kid's too young to stand up t' ye. It ain't fair."
"Oh, it ain't!" Red loosed his grip on Tod and turned in a frenzy on the boatswain. "Didn't yuh hear the lubber call me a coward? I don't have t' take that —do I, now?"
"Yah, the kid's too young," grunted Jorgenson. "Stop 'em, bose."
Tod gripped the bunk behind him. His head was up, his face white. "Don't stop this on my account, bo'sun; I'm not afraid of him. I'm his equal. I know something about boxing, and he doesn't."
"Oh, is zat so!" Red jerked against the boatswain's restraining hand. "I won't take none of his lip, see? Bose, yuh ain't got no right."
"Yes, that's true," broke in Toppy. He was sitting up in his bunk watching the scene with vast amusement. "Ye cawn't stop the bloomin' fight now, boats. The kid said that bloke was a coward and a liar. Ye gotter let 'em fight it out."
"Not now," said the bo'sun, apparently sparring for time.
Toppy nodded. "Aye, not now—but this evening —or to-morrow when all the watch is here. We'll time 'em—we'll give 'em a regular bout with the old Mark o'Queensberry rules. Blimey, that's the thing! Three rounds! It ain't fair ter let the boys miss this."
Red Mitchell cast Toppy a grateful glance. "That's the stuff," he said sourly. "Don't say nothin', bose, t' the mates; and we'll have it out after mess to-morrer. I'll make him swaller his words! Him— mess boy! And brother t' a thief!"
"Shut your mouth!" snapped Tod. "Yes—Neil Moran is my brother—and I'm proud of him, too. Everything you said is a lie. Do you understand? A lie! You're not half the man he is."
"Oh, I ain't, eh? Well, we'll see!"
The stocky, grizzled boatswain put up a soothing hand. "Now, quiet down, you fellers. Maybe after evening mess to-morrer. But mum's the word. If the after cabin hears of this—good night! Th' mate'll be havin' us walk the plank."
As Red Mitchell was led away, Tod caught a gleam of triumph in the man's evil eyes. Of course! He had made Tod admit that he was Neil Moran's brother. Probably that was just what the mate had put him up to. And he had been successful. Now Hawkes would know. He would be on his guard, careful of any information about the Panama leaking out.
With a catch in his throat Tod turned to his bunk. He had failed. Memory bit into his mind. All the plans of Sheila Murray, all his own plans had come to naught, chiefly because he had allowed his temper to become his master. Panic assailed him. Failed! He sat down trembling on his bunk, and trembling, put up his hand to wipe the beads of perspiration from his face. This heat! Worse every hour, and Panama still two days off. Where was Neil? He wasn't guilty. The mate knew it. And Red? Well, Red wasn't worth this failure. What would the girl in San Francisco say when she learned how he had ruined her hopes? And Neil—what would Neil say?
Ruminating, he was suddenly overwhelmed with the immensity of his task. He bit his lip sharply. His thoughts were winging their way out across the sea, searching, questing—crying: "Neil—Neil! Where are you? . . . Where are you?"
CHAPTER III
SHARKS
ANOTHER night dropped astern. The sun rose over the rim of the ocean upon a sea smooth and polished as glass. The humid tropic heat held the ship in its sultry embrace. It seemed incredible to Tod that March could be so hot. Dispensing with his stiff white coat, the boy served breakfast to the officers beneath the awning on the poop. Captain Ramsey appeared in pajamas and slippers, Mr. Hawkes in trousers and singlet.
The two officers were drinking their coffee, facing the faint breath of air coming up from the south, when abruptly they looked up, startled. Tod paused in his work, listening, too. Beneath their feet the rhythmic quiver of the propeller had trembled into silence. The boy felt suddenly imprisoned in the stillness.
"What the deuce is wrong now?" blurted out Captain Ramsey.
"The engines! They've been on the blink all night," said the mate, as he looked questioningly forward. "The chief's been worried sick. He's expecting anything—the boilers to burst, or one o' the cylinder heads to blow off. Ah, here's the second."
The second engineer came hurrying aft. He climbed the ladder to the poop and stopped; his hands, black and greasy, mopped his sweaty brow with a piece of cotton waste. "It's the main steam pipe, sir," he announced. "Broken! It wasn't unexpected."
"It wasn't!" The captain's gaunt, imperturbable face moved in anger. "Doesn't the chief know it's his business to keep the engines going? We're dropping behind our schedule as it is—eight knots!"
"Yes, sir; but it's hard to get a fair head o' steam out o' such boilers."
"Good Lord! What a tub!" remarked the mate, lighting his pipe.
The captain pushed back his chair and rose. "These steamers!" he snorted scornfully. "Now if this was only a four-masted ship, we'd be sailing along with the Trades." He tightened the pajama strings about his thin waist. "How long before you'll have it fixed?"
"By noon—perhaps, sir."
"Very well. I'll be down at once."
Tod watched the commander patter away and disappear into the engine-room entrance. "He'll forget inspection this morning," he thought with glee. "Maybe the galley and fo'c's'le will have a rest, too."
"Kid, come here!"
Tod, who was skirting the saloon skylight with his tray of dishes, spun about. Hawkes was regarding him steadily, his nose hooked down over his wide red mouth.
"Yes, sir." The boy returned to the table and stood silently waiting.
"No fightin' in the fo'c's'le—see?" His eyes gleamed beneath the black gash of his brows. "It'll be the brig fer both of yuh, if I catch ye, see?"
"Yes, sir."
Mr. Hawkes thrust his head forward at the boy. "So you're the brother of that feller Moran of the Panama." The words, loud and gruff, were hardly a question.
"Yes, sir." So Red had told him already!
The mate reflectively scratched his broad chest, where the matted hair showed dark beneath his singlet. "Well, I'm sorry to hear that, kid. I was just beginnin' t' think you was made of different stuff."
Tod's heart dropped. An obscure dread threatened to rise in a sudden attack and overwhelm him. His gaze fluttered past Mr. Hawkes, past the taffrail, to the sea birds cruising placidly against a burnished sky. Sword thrusts! First by Mr. Swickard, then by Red Mitchell, now by Mr. Hawkes. They thrust deep, then twisted the blade to make him writhe in agony.
His breath came short; his gray eyes were wistful, beseeching, as he turned a stricken face to the man. "It can't be true of Neil. Surely there's some mistake!"
The mate shook his dark head slowly. A grin twitched the bristling muscles of his cheeks. "No— there ain't no mistake. But don't be a silly fool. What if he is yer brother? That don't cut no plum duff."