"In the Black Ball Line I served my time, To me hoodah. To me hoodah;
  In the Black Ball Line I served my time,
So hurrah for the Black Ball Line!
"Blow, my bullies, blow,
 For California O!
 There's plenty of gold,
 So I've been told,
On the banks of the Sacramento!"
It was with this familiar capstan chanty, "The Banks of the Sacramento," ringing into his senses that Paul Lavelle opened his eyes again on conscious life. The chorus rose clear and lusty, following a baritone leader whose tones were like chimes. A strange, sharp voice of command near by suddenly cut into the chorus.
 
"Tell that gang of bullies to cut that out and handle that capstan in silence! Tell 'em to remember we've sick folk aboard here."
 
A moment afterward the chanty ceased.
 
"Emily, Emily!" Paul called. He believed he shouted, but his voice rose hardly above a whisper. A shadow cut off the morning sunlight which was streaming through a door at his feet. A film seemed to be over his vision, but he sensed that he was in the Daphne's lounge. Somebody sat down beside him and two strong hands took one of his between them.
 
"You God blessed, old pirate, you——"
 
Emotion choked the speaker, but Paul Lavelle started at the sound of that voice. It called to him across fourteen years of silence. He looked up dazed at a man built like himself and dressed in the uniform of a United States naval commander.
 
"Tommy—Tommy Winterton," he murmured.
 
"Bet your boots it's Tommy!" came the answer with a bit of a sniffle in it.
 
"But where am I? Where——" Terror seized him. "Emily, Emily!" he called.
 
"She's below, Paul, sleeping. She's been up here, sitting where I am, nearly all night."
 
"But how——Where——"
 
"Stow your questions till I get through. I've a lot to tell you."
 
Paul subsided with a wondering gaze fixed on the speaker.
 
"I've a lot to tell that'll make you want to live; that ought to bring you off your back quicker than you can say Jack Robinson," Winterton went on. "You haven't swallowed any steam—you're burned up a bit outside and you're just as good-looking as ever."
 
"But where am I? What has happened?"
 
"You're aboard your own bark—the Daphne. She's yours by the Lord Harry and I'd like to see anybody take her away from you. We'll be up with the Gate in another three hours. I'm having her mudhooks shackled up now. Along——"
 
A renewing of the chanty interrupted him.
 
"Mr. Yates! Mr. Yates!" called Winterton.
 
A young ensign appeared in the doorway.
 
"Tell 'em to cut that out!"
 
Paul shook his head.
 
"Let 'em go on," he asked. "Ask that fellow with the baritone voice to find a job and give us 'The Maid of Amsterdam.'"
 
"Anything his heart desires, Mr. Yates."
 
Yates stepped inside with his hand extended toward Paul.
 
"I just want to shake hands with you and say I'm proud to do it."
 
He lifted the hand which Winterton held and gave it a gentle squeeze through its bandages. He turned and went out quickly. Winterton picked up the hand again and met Paul's wondering gaze.
 
"That boy meant that," said Winterton. "Why——"
 
The strain of "The Maid of Amsterdam"—the most beautiful of all sailor work songs—came aft.
 
"That can't stop me," Winterton went on. "We ran afoul of your old packet about 11 o'clock yesterday morning, threshing around like a wild ship—two ships of the cruiser squadron; mine and another. The Carolina has gone on in. I'm stretching a hawser over your bows with my ship. Don't you remember anything about it? No? I sent Yates and a boat's crew aboard of you. They found you and that glorious girl trying to get aft. You wanted to get to the wheel and you not able to stand. Don't remember it, eh? I reckon you don't.
 
"Oh, my boy, that girl and you have had the whole lot of us miserable. We reached Honolulu from Callao ten days after the Cambodia went down. Department ordered us to join the search for survivors. Whaler picked up a hundred and forty. There was a kid of a quartermaster among 'em—he and a chap named Evans—he's in the consular service—were the heroes of the whole lot. It would take me a week to tell you the things they said about you. They weren't the only ones. To me it was like a poor man finding gold—every word they dropped was a chunk of gold. Say, don't mind, if I snivel a little bit. But I'm glad, glad! You under—you old——"
 
"My mother——Have——"
 
"Got a cable from her at Honolulu. Sent a wireless to her last night. She's waiting for you now in town. Cambodia had no wireless. 'Twas a crime. Somebody ought to be hanged."
 
Paul nodded assent.
 
"Well, we combed out to the westward looking for you till it was hopeless," Winterton resumed. "We had nothing but gale upon gale. We combed through that chain of islands to the nor'west of the Hawaiians and at Midway we ran on the gang out of this ship. Oh, it isn't a pretty story: They'd made the island after being in the boats ten days. When they set fire to this ship they thought Midway was right aboard of them. None was a navigator. Second mate—a murdering hound named Morgan, who'd been taken aft from the foc'sle, was the ringleader. He killed McGavock, the skipper. The Jap cook killed the mate. Plain hellishness was at the back of it; that's all.
 
"McGavock had been logging both of them—knocked Morgan down one day for giving him back talk. Mate did the same to the cook. The Jap was crazy from opium smoking. After they'd done the killing they fixed the fire and the rest of the crew followed them over the side like rats—you know the kind. One of the outfit—sort of a third mate and bos'n—who'd put up a fight—they turned him adrift without water or a bite to eat. Told him to eat the oars if he got hungry; gave him the ocean to drink. Yes, that's the fellow you picked up. Miss Granville told me about it last night. He was with your father at Apia."
 
"But what of McGavock's wife? There was a woman, Tommy."
 
"She wasn't aboard. Seems poor McGavock lost his wife—died at sea with her little baby, away out to the westward there, a couple of years ago. He kept brooding over it—kept the wife's things aboard just as she'd left them. I saw the little ferns down there under the skylights yesterday evening. Seems that after crossing the line this voyage McGavock got it into his head to make the position where he'd buried the little woman. He had it marked on the chart with a little red cross. The mutineers stole the chart and they thought the red cross stood for an island. God knows why McGavock steered out there. Maybe he never intended to come away.
 
"The Jap committed suicide at Midway, but he told the whole story before he went out and we have the rest of it from the other swine. The whole outfit's aboard my ship. Something of the poetry of justice in that, eh? A British cruiser's waiting to take them aboard as soon as we get in. Had her by wireless yesterday.
 
"But, Paul, it's you I want to talk about—and I'll not answer another question till I have my say. When the news of the Cambodia's loss and what you'd done aboard of her went flashing round the world it set the old navy gang's hearts up. But it did more than that. It reached into the conscience of that fellow Graham. He was on his last legs in a hospital in San Francisco. He'd never had a ship since he'd lost the Yakutat—just a beachcomber and a bum. A man can't do a dirty thing and stand up afterward. That's as sure as shooting. Well, with his last breath, Graham tells the truth about the night the Yakutat was lost; said if he'd done ............