A deck-hand was sent into the dismal chaos, and there presently returned in his wake a lean, sandy man in khaki who clutched an old-fashioned Springfield rifle. At a guess his years might have been forty, and his visage had never a trace of humor in it. Much drill had squared his shoulders and flattened his back, and he stiffly saluted Captain O’Shea. “Who are you, and what are ye doing in such amazin’ bad company?” asked the latter. “My name is Jack Gorham, sir. I served four enlistments in the Fifth Infantry, and I have medals for marksmanship. The Cubans took me on as a sharp-shooter. They promised me a thousand dollars for every Spanish officer I pick off with this old gun of mine. I have a hundred and fifty rounds. You can figure it out for yourself, sir. I’ll be a rich man.” “Provided ye are not picked off first, me hopeful sharp-shooter. Are there any more good men in your crowd?” The old regular dubiously shook his head as he answered: “There’s a dozen or so that may qualify on dry land. The rest ain’t what you’d call reliable comrades-in-arms.” “Oh, they may buck up,” exclaimed Captain O’Shea. “Look here, Gorham, you can’t live on deck with those sea-sick swine. Better go for’ard and bunk with my crew.” Jack Gorham looked grateful, but firmly declared: “Thank you, sir, I belong with the Cuban outfit, and I’ll take my medicine. It would make bad feeling if I was to quit ’em. They are as jealous and touchy as children. I have a tip for you. There is one ugly lad in the bunch, the big, black nigger settin’ yonder on the hatch. They tell me he comes from Colombia and left there two jumps ahead of the police.” They gazed down at the powerful figure of the negro, whose tattered shirt disclosed swelling ridges of muscle and more than one long scar defined in pink against the shining black skin. Thick-lipped, flat-nosed, he was the primitive African savage whose ancestors had survived the middle passage in the hold of a Spanish slaver. He was snarling and grumbling to a group of Cubans, and Captain O’Shea pricked up his ears. “Raising a row about the grub, is he? ’Tis a pity he could not be sea-sick early and often.” “Why don’t you crack him over the head with a belayin’-pin just for luck?” amiably suggested the chief engineer. “It would sweeten him up considerable.” “I am carrying them as passengers, you blood-thirsty old buccaneer,” retorted O’Shea. “I must keep me hands off till they really mix things up. But I do not like the looks of the big nigger. He is one of your born trouble-hunters.” “You take my advice and beat him up good and plenty before he gets started,” was the sage farewell of Johnny Kent as he lumbered below to exhort his oilers and stokers.