Suddenly the steamer came over to starboard with a deep roll, and the great stack dropped with her. The mate saw the chance of mishap. His whistle piped a sharp, quick order to hoist. The _lancheros_ cowered, their arms over their heads--all but Stanwood. He stood watching a chance. The stack swung and whirled, gigantic and awful, not a foot above his reach. But the rope had been just too short. The ship heaved back, and with a reverberation of metal thunder as it struck against the hull, the cylinder swung up again. Courage came back to the _capitan_ of the lighter then, and with it all his powers of mean impertinence. He shouted up curses at the first-officer. They were vile, as curses can only be vile in that “language of prayer.” And the first-officer understood them perfectly. But he had no time to take notice of them. The ship had got to get off that night. And the stacks had got to be unloaded. But it was far from simple to get even this first one lowered into the launch. Several times they dropped it almost to its place, then, because the empty scow bobbed one way in a swell, and the ship another, it had to be hoisted once more. And once the windlass refused to work at a signal. There was a delay until it could be repaired. The _capitan_ of the _lancheros_ waxed more impertinent and abusive; the _tequila_ with which he had been refreshing himself on shore was beginning to take its violent effect. In the absorption of his abuse of the ship and all its crew, he forgot to order his own men. The stack was coming down once again, with a fair chance of landing squarely in the bottom at last--if the _lancheros_ should be quick enough at guiding it. But they were doing nothing, frightened half out of their little available senses. And their _capitan_ was yelling foul words aloft. It was a critical instant. The white _lanchero_ knew it. He gave an order. It was all the men needed--a head. They made to obey. But the boss, in the madness of _tequila_, turned on his white hand. Was _he_ the _capitan_? Was _he_ in command? He had the signal conch shell in his hand. He brought it down with a cracking blow on Stanwood’s head. The first-officer, watching the critical descent of the iron monster with all his attention, saw Stanwood spring at the boss’s throat, saw the knives of the other _lancheros_ drawn, saw them swarming astern to the rescue of their fellow, ten of them against one. And the iron stack was swaying just above them. Another starboard roll--they would be crushed under it. And another moment lost and the Gringo would have ten knives in his neck and back. The little whistle shrilled sharply twice, and even as its order was obeyed and the windlass reversed, the first-officer was sliding overside down the manrope, had kicked himself off from the hull, and landed in the launch.