I may well say, now that I think it over, that it was this particular hen that started the mutiny. The men, well-driven by Mr. Pike, were ripe for an explosion, and Possum and the hen laid the train. Possum fell away backwards from the coop and loosed a wild cry of pain and indignation. This attracted Ditman Olansen’s attention. He paused and craned his neck out in order to see, and, in this moment of carelessness, the block he was carrying fetched away from him along with the several turns of rope around his shoulder. Both the mates sprang away to get out from under. The rope, fast to the block and following it, lashed about like a blacksnake, and, though the block fell clear of Mr. Mellaire, the bight of the rope snatched off his cap. Mr. Pike had already started an oath aloft when his eyes caught sight of the terrible cleft in Mr. Mellaire’s head. There it was, for all the world to read, and Mr. Pike’s and mine were the only eyes that could read it. The sparse hair upon the second mate’s crown served not at all to hide the cleft. It began out of sight in the thicker hair above the ears, and was exposed nakedly across the whole dome of head. The stream of abuse for Ditman Olansen was choked in Mr. Pike’s throat. All he was capable of for the moment was to stare, petrified, at that enormous fissure flanked at either end with a thatch of grizzled hair. He was in a dream, a trance, his great hands knotting and clenching unconsciously as he stared at the mark unmistakable by which he had said that he would some day identify the murderer of Captain Somers. And in that moment I remembered having heard him declare that some day he would stick his fingers in that mark. Still as in a dream, moving slowly, right hand outstretched like a talon, with the fingers drawn downward, he advanced on the second mate with the evident intention of thrusting his fingers into that cleft and of clawing and tearing at the brain-life beneath that pulsed under the thin film of skin. The second mate backed away along the bridge, and Mr. Pike seemed partially to come to himself. His outstretched arm dropped to his side, and he paused. “I know you,” he said, in a strange, shaky voice, blended of age and passion. “Eighteen years ago you were dismasted off the Plate in the _Cyrus Thompson_. She foundered, after you were on your beam ends and lost your sticks. You were in the only boat that was saved. Eleven years ago, on the _Jason Harrison_, in San Francisco, Captain Somers was beaten to death by his second mate. This second mate was a survivor of the _Cyrus Thompson_. This second mate’d had his skull split by a crazy sea-cook. Your skull is split. This second mate’s name was Sidney Waltham. And if you ain’t Sidney Waltham . . . ”