In the Roaring Fifties | Page 9

round. The men gazed at Done
with a ludicrous expression of stupid reproach. He had deceived,
betrayed them; he had posed as a quiet, harmless man, with the
manners of an aristocrat, when he might have been ship's champion at
any moment by merely putting up his hands.
Phil went down five times. The fifth time he remained seated, gazing
straight before him, with one sad, meditative eye, and another that
looked as if it could never be of any use as an eye again.

'Get up, Ryan!' urged Phil's second.
Phil did not move; he gave no indication of having heard.
'Ryan, get up, man!' The second prompted him with his toe.
'Meanin' me?' said the vanquished.
'To be sure. Be a man! Get up and face him.'
'Divil a fear o' me!' said Ryan. 'I'm never goin' to get up agin till you
put that wild man to bed.' He pointed at Jim.
'Are you licked, then, Ryan?'
'Licked it is. Any man is li'ble to wander into error, maybe, but there's
wan thing about Phil Ryan, he's open to conviction, an' he's had all the
conviction he wants this blessed night.'
'Then we've had enough?' said the second, with an uneasy eye on Jim.
'We have that,' continued Ryan, 'onless some other gintleman would
like to resoom th' argumint where I dthropped it.' The fallen hero ran
his good eye eagerly from face to face.
But Done had already returned to his bunk, and the others seemed
indisposed to put him to further trouble. No more jokes were played
upon the Hermit. The cynics and the wits developed a pronouncedly
serious vein, and it was resolved that for the future Jim Done should
take his own road, and behave in his own peculiar way, without
provoking objection from the company.
'Tis a curtyis an' gintlemanly risolution,' said Ryan, tenderly caressing
his inflated eye, 'an' a great pity it is we forgot to think iv it sooner.'
The respect the forecastle had acquired for Done was vastly increased
by his rescue of Lucy Woodrow. Conduct that had previously been
ascribed to mere conceit was now accounted for by most romantic
imaginings, for it is a cardinal belief amongst men of their class that the

true fighter is superior to all little weaknesses and small motives. When
the girl crossed the moonlit deck to Done's side, the sailors drifted
away out of earshot, and inquisitive eyes could not turn in Jim's
direction without provoking a profane reproof.
Done's heart beat heavily as the slim, dark figure faced him, extending
a trembling hand.
'I am Lucy Woodrow,' she said in a voice little above a whisper.
'Yes,' he answered simply.
Her hand closed upon his fingers, and she was silent for a moment,
evidently deeply agitated. Her head was bent, hiding her face from his
eyes; and he noticed curiously the moonlight glimmering like tiny
sparks in her red-brown hair.
'You saved my life,' she continued; 'you risked your own. I thank you
with all my heart.'
There was something in her voice that made the simple, formal words
quite eloquent, but Jim scarcely heeded them; he was terrified lest she
should kiss his hand, and withdrew it abruptly.
'I can only say thank you--thank you! And one says that in gratitude for
a mere politeness. But you understand, don't you? My heart is full.'
'Yes, I understand,' he said. 'Now, please, try to say no more about it.
I'm glad to have helped you; but the risk I took was very small after all.
I've almost lived in the sea.'
She raised her face and looked into his eyes.
'It is very easy for you to speak like that,' she said; 'but I know that if it
were not for you at this moment my poor body--' She sobbed and
turned to the sea, with something of its terror and desolation in her face,
and Done understood the grim idea that possessed her.
'Thank God, it was not to be!' he said; and he felt more deeply at that

moment than he had done for many years.
Lucy Woodrow remained silent, leaning upon the gunwale with her
face to the sea, and he noticed presently that she was weeping, and was
silent too. When she spoke again the new feeling in her voice startled
him.
'Why did you save me?' she asked in a passionate whisper.
'Why?' He was full of wonder, and repeated the interrogation vaguely.
'Yes, why--why? You had no right!'
'Is it a matter of right?' he asked, stunned. 'I saw you fall. I don't know
why I jumped over. My next conscious action was of striking out in the
water. The act was quite involuntary.'
'You had no right!' Her voice was very low, but instinct with a