I parried the blow and struck back at his face; but it was like parrying a battering ram and striking a stone wall. It was the only blow I struck in that fight, if fight it may be called. He was larger, heavier, and quicker than myself, and soon I felt his fist crashing between my eyes, and my world went out in a blinding flash of light. I came to in a few moments, I think, and found myself in the lee scuppers with Mabel bending over me, her face all sympathy and kindliness. I could barely see it between my closing eyelids; but could also see Mr. Butterell standing up to windward with Captain Merwin, laughingly explaining his code of ethics. "Yes, sir," he was saying. "I consider that there's less difference between your second mate and the dubs I kicked forward than between myself and a captain. That goes, Captain Merwin, or you can put me aboard the first inbound ship!" I struggled to my feet and, pushing past Mabel, approached the two as the captain answered, "Yes, yes, Mr. Butterell, I understand; but I am sorry, very sorry. I had hoped--I hope there will be no more fighting." "No, sir," I broke in rather insanely, "there'll be no more fighting with fists, I promise you that. But let me say to you, sir," I faced Mr. Butterell, "that there's less difference between you and a dead man than there is between you and a captain. If you ever strike me again, I'll kill you, if I have to knife you through your window while you are asleep." Then, as though it were a deathknell, four bells struck at the wheel. I spoke loudly in my rage, and pain, and blindness--for I could not see them now--and I know my words rang through the ship from end to end, and must have been heard by the listening crew, for a few responsive whoops came from forward. But also came a shivery "Oh, oh!" from Mabel, and stern words from the captain. "Tut, tut, Mr. Rogers!" he said. "That will do! You are setting a bad example to the men. Go to your room, bathe your eyes, and get your supper. If you cannot stand watch at eight bells, I will stand watch for you; but no more of this talk of killing! I did not think it of you!" And, to the sound of Mr. Butterell's soft, derisive chuckling, he half led, half pushed me into the companion to my room on the starboard side of the passage. With the exception of the log desk in the mate's room, the two apartments were similar, each with a window looking out on the main deck, and another, over the berth opening into the alley. I could not eat, and as I crawled blindly into the berth, like a bad boy sent supperless to bed, and opened the window to let air in on my fevered face, I could not help thinking how easy it would be to carry out my threat. In imagination I did so; but I was not yet sane.