On my left a Lascar was fighting for his
life against one of our new crew. On every side men were splashing and
shouting and cursing.
Now, high above the uproar, I heard a voice, at once familiar and strange.
For a moment I could not place it; it had a wild note that baffled me. Then
I saw black Frank, cleaver in hand, come bounding out of the darkness. His
arms and legs, like the legs of some huge tarantula, flew out at all angles
as he ran, and in fierce gutturals he was yelling over and over again:--
"Whar's dat Kipping?"
He peered this way and that.
"Whar's dat Kipping?"
Out of the corner of my eye I saw some one stir by the deck-house, and the
negro, seeing him at the same moment, leaped at my own conclusion.
In doubt whither to flee, too much of a coward at heart either to throw
himself overboard or to face his enemy if there was any chance of escape,
the unhappy Kipping hesitated one second too long. With a mighty lunge the
negro caught him by the throat, and for a moment the two swayed back and
forth in the open space between us and our enemies.
I thought of the night when they had fought together in the galley door.
Momentarily Kipping seemed actually to hold his own against the mad negro;
but his strength was of despair and almost at once we saw that it was
failing.
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