Mr. Pike turned on his heel, and I swung alongside of him as he moved aft. “What do you make of them?” I queried. “The limit,” he grunted. “I know their kidney. They’ve done time, the three of them. They’re just plain sweepings of hell—” Here his speech was broken off by the spectacle that greeted him on Number Two hatch. Sprawled out on the hatch were five or six men, among them Larry, the tatterdemalion who had called him “old stiff” earlier in the afternoon. That Larry had not obeyed orders was patent, for he was sitting with his back propped against his sea-bag, which ought to have been in the forecastle. Also, he and the group with him ought to have been for’ard manning the windlass. The mate stepped upon the hatch and towered over the man. “Get up,” he ordered. Larry made an effort, groaned, and failed to get up. “I can’t,” he said. “Sir!” “I can’t, sir. I was drunk last night an’ slept in Jefferson Market. An’ this mornin’ I was froze tight, sir. They had to pry me loose.” “Stiff with the cold you were, eh?” the mate grinned. “It’s well ye might say it, sir,” Larry answered. “And you feel like an old stiff, eh?” Larry blinked with the troubled, querulous eyes of a monkey. He was beginning to apprehend he knew not what, and he knew that bending over him was a man-master. “Well, I’ll just be showin’ you what an old stiff feels like, anyways.” Mr. Pike mimicked the other’s brogue. And now I shall tell what I saw happen. Please remember what I have said of the huge paws of Mr. Pike, the fingers much longer than mine and twice as thick, the wrists massive-boned, the arm-bones and the shoulder-bones of the same massive order. With one flip of his right hand, with what I might call an open-handed, lifting, upward slap, save that it was the ends of the fingers only that touched Larry’s face, he lifted Larry into the air, sprawling him backward on his back across his sea-bag. The man alongside of Larry emitted a menacing growl and started to spring belligerently to his feet. But he never reached his feet. Mr. Pike, with the back of same right hand, open, smote the man on the side of the face. The loud smack of the impact was startling. The mate’s strength was amazing. The blow looked so easy, so effortless; it had seemed like the lazy stroke of a good-natured bear, but in it was such a weight of bone and muscle that the man went down sidewise and rolled off the hatch on to the deck. At this moment, lurching aimlessly along, appeared O’Sullivan. A sudden access of muttering, on his part, reached Mr. Pike’s ear, and Mr. Pike, instantly keen as a wild animal, his paw in the act of striking O’Sullivan, whipped out like a revolver shot, “What’s that?” Then he noted the sense-struck face of O’Sullivan and withheld the blow. “Bug-house,” Mr. Pike commented. Involuntarily I had glanced to see if Captain West was on the poop, and found that we were hidden from the poop by the ’midship house.