“’Tis not me duty， the killin’ of b’ys，” Gorman protestedirresolutely.
“If yez don’t make mate for us， we’ll be makin’ mate ofyerself，” Behane threatened. “Somebody must die， an’ aswell you as another.”
Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O’Brien listened anxiously.
His face was pale. His lips trembled， and at times hiswhole body shook.
“I signed on as cook，” Gorman enounced. “An’ cook Iwud 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，” Sullivansaid grimly， at the same moment gripping the cook’s headfrom behind and bending it back till the windpipe andjugular 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 somefashion to nerve up O’Brien.
“It’s all right， Gorman，” he said. “Go on with ut. ’Tismeself 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 timedealing him a heavy cuff alongside the head.
The boy， who was scarcely more than a child， fetchedthe cover. He crawled and tottered along the deck， soweak was he from hunger. The tears still ran down hischeeks. Behane took the cover from him， at the same timeadministering another cuff.
O’Brien took off his coat and bared his right arm. Hisunder 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 everye get back，” O’Brien requested.
Mahoney nodded.
“’Tis black murder， black an’ damned，” he said. “The b’y’sflesh’ll do none iv yez anny good. Mark me words. Ye’ll notprofit by it， none iv yez.”
“Get ready，” the captain ordered. “You， Sullivan， holdthe cover—that’s it—close up. Spill nothing. It’s preciousstuff.”
Gorman made an effort. The knife was dull. He wasweak. Besides， his hand was shaking so violently that henearly dropped the knife. The three boys were crouchedapart， in a huddle， crying and sobbing. With the exceptionof 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 coverclose underneath. The cut veins gaped wide， but no ruddyflood gushed forth. There was no blood at all. The veinswere dry and empty. No one spoke. The grim and silentfigures swayed in unison with each heave of the ship.
Every eye was turned fixedly upon that inconceivable andmonstrous 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 wasunlike his own.
“Give me the knife，” O’Brien said roughly， taking it outof the cook’s hand. “I can’t be lookin’ at ye puttin’ me tohurt.”
Quite coolly he cut the vein at the left elbow， but， likethe cook， he failed to bring blood.
“This is all iv no use，” Sullivan said. “’Tis better to puthim 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 inme throat. Give me a little time. ’Tis cold an’ weak I am.
