Heat, that grew more terrific as the dock drifted southward; hunger, that gnawed¹ like rats at the empty stomachs of the crew; withering² heat, aching hunger, growing despair—that was life on the floating dock.  
Of all the crew only Gaskin remained in good condition. It would have required more than a hero to cook food and go hungry, but the crew made no such allowances. They berated³ the dignified⁴ Gaskin, they eyed each other's scant⁵ portions jealously. Their quarrels over food at last forced Madden to weigh each man's allowance to the fraction of an ounce.
 
The nerves of the crew frayed⁶ out in the heat. By night they slept amid tantalizing⁷ dreams of food; by day they sprawled⁸ in dreary⁹ silences under awnings¹⁰ which held heat like sweat boxes. The high metal walls of the dock caught the sun's rays and threw out a furnace heat. The men endured it in net undershirts clinging to dripping bodies; their eyes ached against the glare, their stomachs rebelled, their brains sickened with monotony and despair.
 
The men developed little personal traits that exasperated¹² their mates unreasonably¹³. Mulcher had a way of breathing aloud through his coarse lips that chafed¹⁴ Hogan's temper. For hours at a time the Irishman would stare at those flabby spewing lips, filled with a desire to maul them. Yet before this isolation¹⁵, he had never observed that Mulcher breathed aloud.
 
The only occupation the men had now was to stare at, listen to and criticise¹⁶ each other. All painting had ceased, for work consumes energy, and energy consumes food.
 
Caradoc Smith found peculiar¹⁷ and private grievance¹⁸ in the fact that Greer often whistled to himself in a windy undertone. The tune¹⁹ Farnol chose for these unfortunate performances was an American ragtime²⁰, that repeated the same strain over and over.
 
Caradoc strove not to listen to this dry whistling. Sometimes he left his awning¹¹ and climbed up the walls through the sapping sun's rays to escape it, but his ears caught the faintly aspirated air at remarkable²¹ distances.
 
One day he said to Madden: "I don't see how you stand that Greer fellow's eternal whistling," and Leonard answered:
 
"Does Greer whistle?"
 
"Whistle! He whistles everlastingly²², abominably—one of those confounded American rags. He's at it now—what is that thing?"
 
Madden had to listen very carefully before he caught the faint blowing between Farnol's lips. Presently he identified it.
 
"That's 'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid.'"
 
This reply seemed to arouse an irrational²³ anger in the Briton.
 
"'Winona, Sweet Indian Maid'—sweet Indian Maid!" he snorted. "Did an Indian write such a nightmare? Is it a war song? Do they murder each other by it, or with it?"
 
Madden grinned with fagged appreciation²⁴, thinking the remark meant for humor, but Caradoc grimly chewed his blond mustache.
 
It was noon, three days later when Caradoc's endurance broke down.
 
"Greer!" he snapped with all his pent-up irritation²⁵ in his voice, "will you never stop mouthing that beastly tune?"
 
The stolid²⁶ fellow looked around in the blankest surprise. "Tune?"
 
"No, groaning²⁷, wheezing²⁸! You spew it out all day long! What do you think you are? A tree frog, a locust²⁹, a katydid? Doesn't your mouth get tired? Does that hideous³⁰ tinkle³¹ go through your hollow head all day long?"
 
The Englishman's long face was a dusky red. He had not intended to be insulting when he first spoke³², but all the sarcastic³³ and abusive epithets³⁴ that he had thought during the long super-heated days of nerve-racked listening, now rushed out like steam from a boiler³⁵.
 
Farnol stared straight at the nervous fellow. "Are you insane?" he asked in wondering contempt,
 
"A wonder I'm not—with that diabolical³⁶ wheezy spewing boring in my brain—you never stop a minute—over and over——"
 
"Have you run out of stolen whiskey again?" interrupted Greer with cool malice³⁷.
 
The whole crew came to hushed attention.
 
Caradoc seemed to collect himself with a great effort. The blood ebbed³⁸ from his face, leaving it the color of clay.
 
"Stolen?" he asked in a contained voice. "Yes, isn't there another medicine case for you to steal?"
 
"Greer!" cried Madden reproachfully. The American knew it was hunger, heat and nerves that were nagging³⁹ these two miserable⁴⁰ men to quarrel.
 
"I believe he said I was no gentleman," pronounced Greer sarcastically⁴¹, "because I didn't know a little French. I say he's a thief."
 
Caradoc was drawing long breaths through dilated⁴² nostrils⁴³. "Mr. Greer," he said with cold evenness, "it is impossible to obtain swords or pistols on this dock. We will have to fight with our hands. Choose a second!"
 
Greer nodded shortly. Both men got to their feet and both glanced at Madden.
 
The American shook his head. "I can't serve for either of you. I'm in command here. I'm impartial⁴⁴."
 
"Will you oblige me, Mr. Deschaillon?" asked Smith with a set face.
 
The Gaul arose, saluted⁴⁵, military fashion, with a clicking of heels. "Eet ees an honor, M'sieu!"
 
Greer stared around dourly⁴⁶. "Hogan?"
 
The Irishman leaped to his feet joyfully⁴⁷. "Oi'm wid ye, Misther Greer, and we'll bate⁴⁸ th' long face off th' spalpeen, though I hate to hit Frinchy Dashalong, who is a good frind o' mine."
 
All the men were up now circling about the principals.
 
"You don't have to do no fightin', 'Ogan," explained Galton, "you simply stand by and 'old up for your man, an' 'elp fan 'im 'twixt rounds."
 
"Rounds!" exclaimed the disgusted Irishman. "I thought they were choosin' sides for a free-for-all."
 
Caradoc began methodically stripping to the waist and Greer followed suit. The Englishman presented his watch to Madden with a slight bow.
 
"If you'll be so kind as to keep time," he suggested, "that's a neutral position. We fight four minutes and rest one."
 
Madden considered the warlike preparations askance. He wondered if he ought not to stop it. The Englishman might suffer another sunstroke. However, he took his station at the ringside, and glanced at the watch, which had a coat of arms carved on the inside of its hunting case.
 
There was a striking contrast between the two fighters. The Englishman was a beautiful taper⁴⁹ from his great shoulders to his small aristocratic feet. His muscles were long, graceful⁵⁰ and knitted across his arms, chest, and stomach like lace leather. He was built for swift enduring action and could only have sprung from a race of men who had spent their lives in play and luxury.
 
Farnol Greer, on the other hand, was as heavily moulded as a bulldog. His arms were short and blocky; his shoulders welted with brawn⁵¹; his chest was two hairy hills, like a gorilla's, while across his stomach muscles lay ridged like ropes. His waist was thick with pones of sinew bulging⁵² over the hips⁵⁴, as one sees in the statue of Discobolus. It was plain that Greer had <............