He went on deck, to the starboard side, where he began to muster his watch. Mr. Cottrill’s voice, much more slow and grave than his, made a strange echo with him, each calling a name in turn, each drawing a response from a voice of different pitch. “Shepherd.” “Here, sir.” “Arnold.” “Here, sir.” “Richard Arnold.” “Here, sir.” “John Wise.” “Present, sir.” “Adams.” “At the wheel, sir.” Then the reports: “Port watch all present, sir, except the wheel and look-outs.” “Starboard watch all present, sir.” “Idlers and boys all present, sir”; followed by Captain Cammock’s “Very well,” as he paced to and fro across the forward end of the poop. Captain Margaret stood with Perrin by the poop-bell, with their hats off, out of deference to Captain Cammock. They stood still in their most splendid clothes, just as they had risen from the feast. They looked down on all the upturned faces a few feet beneath them, wondering at the beauty of the scene, lit now, by the dying sun, into a glow, that made each face glorious. Still Captain Cammock walked to and fro, casting a contemptuous glance as he turned; his face set and passionless; his eyes taking in each face of all the crowd. Stukeley, who had followed his friend on deck, asked Margaret if he was going to lead in prayer; but he got no answer; the men, impressed and puzzled, did not titter. Cammock stopped in his walk, and looked over the poop-rail at the crew. “Thomas Iles,” he said. “Sir,” said Iles, turning and looking up. “I break you, for refusing duty.” “What, sir?” “Mr. Cottrill.” “Sir.” “Put the man Iles in your watch.” “Very good, sir.” “Iles, go below and get your chest. Take it forward to the fo’c’s’le. You belong to Mr. Cottrill’s watch.” “What the hell”--began Stukeley. “Silence, please.” “I ain’t goin’ to take no break from you,” said Iles. “Mr. Cottrill,” said Cammock, “log that man.” “Go below and get your chest, Iles,” said Cottrill. “Get ter hell,” said Iles. Cottrill walked up to him and smote him in the eye. “Get your chest, pronto,” he said. “Give me any more of your lip and I’ll lay your spine bare. Give him a hand you, Wise.” “You know the rules, men,” said Captain Cammock. “Choose your new second mate.” The men shuffled and shifted. One of them, a leader in the fo’c’s’le, shoved the bosun forward. “What the hell, boys,” said the bosun under his breath. “We’d rather you chose, sir,” said old Sails, coming from among the crowd after a moment of busy whispering. “I choose you, boatswain,” said Cammock. “Ay or no, you?” “Ay, sir.” “Mr. Ramage, you’re our second mate. Come to my cabin at eight bells and sign the articles. You, Griffin Harris, take Mr. Ramage’s call; I make you boatswain. Mr. Ramage, tell one of the hands to shift your gear into the second mate’s cabin. Harris, bring your chest aft to the round-house. Men, remember that Mr. Ramage is Mister Ramage. Take the call, Harris.”