There was nothing I could do. To cry out or to attempt to reason with him would only have drawn the mutineers’ attention. I heard his feet strike the deck beneath as he let go. Immediately he started for’ard. Little enough precaution he took. I swear that clear to the ’midship-house I heard the dragging age-lag of his feet. Then that ceased, and that was all. I repeat. That was all. Never a sound came from for’ard. I held my watch till daylight. I held it till Margaret came on deck with her cheery “What ho of the night, brave mariner?” I held the next watch (which should have been the mate’s) till midday, eating both breakfast and lunch behind the sheltering jiggermast. And I held all afternoon, and through both dog-watches, my dinner served likewise on the deck. And that was all. Nothing happened. The galley-stove smoked three times, advertising the cooking of three meals. Shorty made faces at me as usual across the rim of the for’ard-house. The Maltese Cockney caught an albatross. There was some excitement when Tony the Greek hooked a shark off the jib-boom, so big that half a dozen tailed on to the line and failed to land it. But I caught no glimpse of Mr. Pike nor of the renegade Sidney Waltham. In short, it was a lazy, quiet day of sunshine and gentle breeze. There was no inkling to what had happened to the mate. Was he a prisoner? Was he already overside? Why were there no shots? He had his big automatic. It is inconceivable that he did not use it at least once. Margaret and I discussed the affair till we were well a-weary, but reached no conclusion. She is a true daughter of the race. At the end of the second dog-watch, armed with her father’s revolver, she insisted on standing the first watch of the night. I compromised with the inevitable by having Wada make up my bed on the deck in the shelter of the cabin skylight just for’ard of the jiggermast. Henry, the two sail-makers and the steward, variously equipped with knives and clubs, were stationed along the break of the poop. And right here I wish to pass my first criticism on modern mutiny. On ships like the _Elsinore_ there are not enough weapons to go around. The only firearms now aft are Captain West’s .38 Colt revolver, and my .22 automatic Winchester. The old steward, with a penchant for hacking and chopping, has his long knife and a butcher’s cleaver. Henry, in addition to his sheath-knife, has a short bar of iron. Louis, despite a most sanguinary array of butcher-knives and a big poker, pins his cook’s faith on hot water and sees to it that two kettles are always piping on top the cabin stove. Buckwheat, who on account of his wound is getting all night in for a couple of nights, cherishes a hatchet.