Shawn's blunders in chess were of a curious kind. Ben could beat him as a rule, with effort, and Shawn took it graciously except for a compulsion to curse at his own mistakes. Ben was reminded each time (but did not say) how Reuben could have given the man a handicap of a rook or better and still have beaten him in fourteen or fifteen moves. Shawn would prepare a good enough attack--squatting by the board in the sunlight of the quarterdeck, on days of small wind when the _Diana_ held an even keel and no work needed to be done--and he would be cheerful in the beginning, a little excited, humming in his teeth, moving his pieces with a mirthful flourish. One could not think of him then as anything but a kindly, humorous, thoughtful man, almost a young man, a man on holiday. But in the decisive moment, when he must push through the attack or be damned to it, the humming would cease, the copper farthing would appear in his fingers, and Shawn would either abandon the attack for some meaningless scrimmage in another part of the field, or make one of his blatant errors--a piece left hanging unprotected, a reckless sacrifice gaining nothing. After that, Ben's limited knowledge was sufficient to demolish him. Daniel Shawn would never seem to understand just how this had happened, and Ben did not tell him. The _Diana_ won no big prizes in that year of prowling up and down the Caribbean. True, she was woefully undermanned, reason enough for risking no lives on anything less than a flat certainty. All the same (said Judah Marsh in Ben's hearing), John Quelch would not have chased a French sloop for three days and then turned tail merely because the little rascal put about in despair and uncovered a gun she shouldn't have possessed. Shawn heard that too, and stared blankly at Marsh, rubbing the coin, until Marsh turned away; but Shawn turned away too, without a reply. There were braver occasions, such as the breathless evening in July when the sloop _Schouven_ died. That was an open battle with everything risked. Tied securely in the stifling forecastle, Ben could hear as much for himself--the coughing thunder above him of the _Diana's_ larboard gun, presently a distant animal howling, a banging of small arms, a piercing squeal like a stuck pig that was French Jack's war cry. When Ben was released to come on deck the _Schouven_ was already afire, the _Diana_ leaving her behind in the gathering night. Tom Ball and Dummy and Jack were gaudily bleeding from minor wounds, but the _Diana_ had lost nothing. She had won about fifty pounds in silver, a month's provisions, a little long-tailed black monkey and a man--a tall, gray, soft-spoken scoundrel, Cornelius Barentsz, who was even then scrawling his name on the _Diana's_ articles with Shawn's blessing. The terrified monkey clung frantically to Dummy and found a friend....