It happened, nevertheless, that Marsden wanted another sailor. At the last port, Corinto, one of his men had gone ashore to see one of the sick mothers he kept along the coast, and that had been the last seen of _him_. Marsden was anxious to fill the vacancy, but Stanwood should not have it. He could work with the launch gang a while longer. It was small enough punishment for his misdeeds. The launch swung alongside. Stanwood was in her. He was having an altercation with the _capitan_, too, and the _capitan_ had been taking more _tequila_, apparently. It would be the course of wisdom for the Gringo _lanchero_ to hold his peace and his tongue, if he were not looking for a speedy exit from a bad sort of life. The _capitan_ and his gang would like nothing better than severally and collectively to stick knives into him. Once again the launch went off, discharged her cargo, and came back for another load. This time it was before the other launch was quite ready to be towed away, so she made fast, bow and stern, to her, and the idle _lancheros_ fell to eating some food they had brought with them as they waited. They crouched together in a group, getting a good deal of fun out of it. There were the inevitable _frijoles_ and bread and bottled coffee, and there was besides a most unwonted treat, a leg of mutton. They passed it from one to the other, and each gnawed at it with his gleaming teeth, grinning over the game. Stanwood crouched among them. But he was not having fun out of it. He was not grinning. He scooped up the common mess of black beans with scraps of crust. He was ragged and dirty as they were. But he did not take his degradation with their good humor. He looked sullen and lean and hungry. Marsden watched him. It was not a pleasant sight, and he felt a kind of sick disgust and pity. But he wanted to see if the bone of meat would go to the white man in the end, and if the white man would take it. It came to the last of the natives. He picked it all but clean with a show of keen enjoyment. There were a few shreds left. He examined them. Then, with the insolence of a base breed having the upper hand, he tossed it over at Stanwood. It struck him on the chest. Marsden could see the killing hate in his eyes, and the shutting of his teeth under the ragged black beard. Then--and he was conscious of a deep relief--he saw him pick up the bone, stand in the scow, and drop it over into the water. Marsden turned away. It was not only of relief that he was conscious, but of a killing hate of the half-breed _lancheros_ equal to Stanwood’s own, as well.