"Better ask the old man," laughed the rover. In a moment Jack was circled by a crowd of eager men, all bawling at once. "Lord lummy, Jack, you must be a bruiser," called one. "Did Black Davis know this, d'you suppose?" asked Curly. "'Course 'e did, you h'ass!" cried the cockney scornfully. "W'y, 'e ain't put a finger on 'im th'ole passage, not even towin' out." "I reckon Black Davis was some scared he'd lose his job if Jack downs him, same as that other fire-eatin' miscreant," mused Broncho. "No, he were dead agin playin' your hand, Jack; he weren't hankerin' to be your beef--he's too keerful of his skin that away." "Gaud blimy! Wot er scrap h'it would er been," lamented the cockney. "It shore would ha' been some lurid, but I pities the mate. He was due to emerge a totterin' wreck. Jack was just a-moanin' for blood an' oozin' with f'rocity," asserted the cowpuncher. "He did look a heap grim," remarked Bedrock Ben. "But what if Black Davis had downed him?" inquired Pinto. "Sich thoughts is figments," said Broncho contemptuously. "I'm puttin' up chips Jack'd have that rancorous hold-up too dead to skin. Jack weren't aimin' to put no delicacy into his play, that time." "Green, if you don't _tcha-tcha_[6] and strike eight bells, you'll have the mate on your trail," broke in the bucko-downer, anxious to cut short the conversation. And a few moments later the silvery note of the bell announced that the first watch had begun. FOOTNOTES: [6] _Tcha-tcha_, "hurry up" (Zulu). CHAPTER VII "IN THE SECOND DOG-WATCH" All through the tropics, Pedro, under the influence of his solitary confinement, had been becoming more and more morose and despondent. He hardly touched the wretched fare which was placed before him, and had wasted to a shadow of his former self. His fierce black eyes glittered out of a sallow, heavily-lined face, upon which the lowering scowl daily became deeper and deeper. His ragged moustache was broken and torn by chewing, whilst his lower lip hung sore and bleeding from the constant gnawing of his teeth. "It's a cert," remarked Broncho, "that that bowie-whirlin' dago is due to go flutterin' from his limb one o' these days. He's lookin' 'bout ready to break camp for the etarnal beyond; his vittles no longer gives him joy, an' he just sets thar an' wilts." "Weevily hard tack and dirty warm water wouldn't give anybody joy," replied Jack. "He wants air and exercise; they should let him out for an hour on deck every day." "Gate an' seat checks for the realms o' light is about what he wants, I reckon," retorted the cattle-ranger. And Broncho was right. One morning they found him too late; he was lying in a pool of blood with a small piece of broken wood in his clenched fingers. With this poor weapon the Chilian had managed to tear open a vein in his arm, and so bled to death. Thus miserably ended the poor little bucko-killer.