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“‘Tis not me duty, the killin’ of b’ys,” Gorman protested irresolutely.

“If yez don’t make mate for us, we’ll be makin’ mate of yerself,” Behane threatened. “Somebody must die, an’ as well you as another.”

Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O’Brien listened anxiously. His face was pale. His lips trembled, and at times his whole body shook.

“I signed on as cook,” Gorman enounced. “An’ cook I wud if galley there was. But I’ll not lay me hand to murder. ‘Tis not in the articles. I’m the cook–“

“An’ cook ye’ll be for wan minute more only,” Sullivan said grimly, at the same moment gripping the cook’s head from behind and bending it back till the windpipe and jugular were stretched taut. “Where’s yer knife, Mike? Pass it along.”

At the touch of the steel, Gorman whimpered.

“I’ll do ut, if yez’ll hold the b’y.”

The pitiable condition of the cook seemed in some fashion to nerve up O’Brien.

“It’s all right, Gorman,” he said. “Go on with ut. ‘Tis meself knows yer not wantin’ to do ut. It’s all right, sir”–this to the captain, who had laid a hand heavily on his arm. “Ye won’t have to hold me, sir. I’ll stand still.”

“Stop yer blitherin’, an’ go an’ get the tureen cover,” Behane commanded Johnny Sheehan, at the same time dealing him a heavy cuff alongside the head.

The boy, who was scarcely more than a child, fetched the cover. He crawled and tottered along the deck, so weak was he from hunger. The tears still ran down his cheeks. Behane took the cover from him, at the same time administering another cuff.

O’Brien took off his coat and bared his right arm. His under lip still trembled, but he held a tight grip on himself. The captain’s penknife was opened and passed to Gorman.

“Mahoney, tell me mother what happened to me, if ever ye get back,” O’Brien requested.

Mahoney nodded.

“‘Tis black murder, black an’ damned,” he said. “The b’y’s flesh’ll do none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye’ll not profit by it, none iv yez.”

“Get ready,” the captain ordered. “You, Sullivan, hold the cover–that’s it–close up. Spill nothing. It’s precious stuff.”

Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He was weak. Besides, his hand was shaking so violently that he nearly dropped the knife. The three boys were crouched apart, in a huddle, crying and sobbing. With the exception of Mahoney, the men were gathered about the victim, craning their necks to see.

“Be a man, Gorman,” the captain cautioned.

The wretched cook was seized with a spasm of resolution, sawing back and forth with the blade on O’Brien’s wrist. The veins were severed. Sullivan held the tureen cover close underneath. The cut veins gaped wide, but no ruddy flood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veins were dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silent figures swayed in unison with each heave of the ship. Every eye was turned fixedly upon that inconceivable and monstrous thing, the dry veins of a creature that was alive.

“‘Tis a warnin’,” Mahoney cried. “Lave the b’y alone. Mark me words. His death’ll do none iv yez anny good.”

“Try at the elbow–the left elbow, ’tis nearer the heart,” the captain said finally, in a dim and husky voice that was unlike his own.

“Give me the knife,” O’Brien said roughly, taking it out of the cook’s hand. “I can’t be lookin’ at ye puttin’ me to hurt.”

Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow, but, like the cook, he failed to bring blood.

“This is all iv no use,” Sullivan said. “‘Tis better to put him out iv his misery by bleedin’ him at the throat.”

The strain had been too much for the lad.

“Don’t be doin’ ut,” he cried. “There’ll be no blood in me throat. Give me a little time. ‘Tis cold an’ weak I am. Be lettin’ me lay down an’ slape a bit. Then I’ll be warm an’ the blood’ll flow.”