Davy held down his head and made no answer. "You were with him--what's it he's afther doin'?" Still no answer from the lad. "Out with it, you cursed young imp," said old Billy. "Damn his fool's face, why doesn't he spake?" "It's the mastha's saycret, and I wunnit tell it," said Davy. "You wunnit, you idiot waistrel?" "No, I wunnit," said Davy, stoutly. "Look here, ye beachcomber, snappin' yer fingers at yer old uncle that's after bringin' you up, you pauper--what was it goin' doin' in the shed yander?" "It's his saycret," repeated Davy. Old Billy took Davy by the neck as if he had been a sack with an open mouth, and brought down his other hand with a heavy slap on the lad's shoulder. "Gerr out, you young devil," he said. Davy took the blow quietly, but he stirred not an inch, and he turned on his uncle with great wide eyes. "Gerr out, scollop eyes;" and old Billy lifted his hand again. "Aisy, aisy," said Crennell, interposing; and then, while Davy went back aft, the men compared notes again. "It's plain to see," said Ned Teare, "it's been a quarrel and maybe a fight, and he's had a piece more than the better, as is only natheral, and him a big strapping chap as strong as a black ox and as straight as the backbone of a herring, and he's been in hidlins, and now he's afther takin' a second thought, and goin' back and chance it." This reading of the mystery commended itself to all. "It's aisy for him to lay high like that," said Ned again. "If I was the old Bishop's son I'd hould my luff too, and no hidlins neither. But we've got ourselves in for it, so we have, and we're the common sort, so we are, and there's never no sailin' close to the wind for the like of us." And to this view of the situation there were many gruff assents. They had come out to sea innocently enough and by a kindly impulse, but they had thereby cast in their lot with the guilty man; and the guilty man had favor in high places, but they had none. Then their tousled heads went together again. "What for shouldn't we lay high, too?" whispered one, which, with other whispers, was as much as to say, why should they not take the high hand and mutiny, and put Dan into irons, and turn the boat's head and stand out to sea? Then it would be anywhere, anywhere, away from the crime of one, and the guilt of all. "Hould hard," said old Billy Quilleash, "I'll spake to himself." Dan, at the tiller, had seen when the men went forward, and he had also seen when some of them cast sidelong looks over their shoulders in his direction. He knew--he thought he knew--the thought wherewith their brave hearts were busy. They were thinking--so thought Dan--that if he meant to throw himself away they must prevent him. But they should see that he could make atonement. Atonement? Empty solace, pitiful unction for a soul in its abasement, but all that remained to him--all, all.