Having spent the greater portion of an adventurous career far from
medical aid in time of bodily stress, Michael J. was, as most
shipmasters are, rather adept in rough-and-tumble surgery. His compact
little library contained a common-sense treatise on the care of burns,
scalds, cuts, fractures and the few minor physical diseases that
sailors are heir to, and in accordance with immemorial custom he, as
master of the ship, was the custodian of the medicine chest. So he
washed the gore from his face, disinfected his split lip and patched
himself up after a fashion. The bullet wound in his left shoulder
proved to be a flesh wound, high up, so he cleaned that and decided
his left wing would be in fair fighting order within a few days. Then
he undressed and said his prayers, with a special invocation for help
from his patron saint, holy Saint Michael, the archangel. Evidently
Saint Michael inclined a friendly ear, for it is a curious fact that
no sooner had his namesake risen from his marrow bones than a curious
sense of peace and comfort stole over him. As in a vision he saw Herr
August Carl von Staden standing on the bridge, bound at ankle, knee
and hand and with a rope round his neck. From the supercargo's neck
the rope led aloft through a small snatch-block fastened to the end of
a cargo derrick and thence to the drum of the forward winch--a device
which had been known to hoist with a jerk objects several tons heavier
than Herr August Carl von Staden! This picture thus conjured in
Murphy's imagination was so real he was almost tempted to recite the
litany for the dying!

"'Twould have been better for them had they killed me dead and hove my
carcass overboard," he decided. "The fact that they didn't, but took
the trouble to carry me to my own bed and lock me in, is proof that
they'll not murder me now--so I'll not worry. I'll have every
beer-drinking, sausage-making son of a seacook begging me for mercy