And before he had taken three steps one of the brothers--I could not tell which at the distance--wrenched an iron belaying pin from the rail and hurled it at his head. It missed; but continued on a flat trajectory to the cabin, from which it rebounded after making an inch dent and whirled forward again and over the lee rail. Had Mr. Butterell's head stopped it, he would never have moved or spoken again. He wheeled when the pin whizzed by him, and with a bound put himself between the two and the forecastle; for each had turned forward. "Who threw that belaying pin?" he said quietly but menacingly. "He throwed it; I didn't," answered one, pointing to the other. "He lies!" retorted the accused one. "He throwed it himself." "I lie, do I?" "Yes, you lie!" And then they were at each other's throats. Forgetting the common enemy, they clenched tightly and whirled about the deck, bending this way and that, striving to trip each other, striking with short uppercuts, and even attempting to bite. But at this the interested men forward crowed aft with sober faces, and Mr. Butterell, sensing their mood, stepped jauntily past the fighters and came aft with an amused smile on his face. Before he reached my vicinity I saw the men part the two and lead them forward. "Did you," said Mr. Butterell to me, his smile leaving him as he looked at me, "did you, I say, see which one threw that pin?" "I saw it thrown, sir," I answered; "but I could not tell which one threw it." "And wouldn't tell me if you could!" he sneered. "I can see that in your face." "Mr. Butterell," I said as calmly as was possible, "if I knew which one threw it, I should tell you; for their unbrotherly conduct just now destroyed what sympathy I may have felt for them." "Sympathy for them!" he exploded. And now I knew the animus of his heckling of me--his audience was again looking down at us. "Sympathy for them!" He shook one finger under my nose. "Now I'll tell you, young fellow," he continued, "before we go any further, that I'm first mate of this craft and I'll dictate the sympathies of any man under me!" "And I'm second," I retorted hotly, "with a right to sympathize with whom I like! And take your hand away from my face, Mr. Butterell!" * * * * * Let me forestall any sympathy I may have aroused for myself. I am not the hero of this story. There is a heroine, but no hero; for neither the mild-natured Captain Merwin, half hypnotized by the dashing Mr. Butterell into a surrender of his principles, Mr. Butterell, actuated by the cheapest motives of vanity and self-love, nor myself, embittered by disappointment, jealousy, and other unworthy emotions--none of us, I say, acted a heroic part from beginning to end. Mr. Butterell took his hand away from my face, as I had demanded; but it became a fist and came back.