Captain Anderson stood alone in the world. But he was one who COULD stand
alone, for his will was strong and his affections were weak. Those who thought
they knew him best said he was hardy. The remainder said he was hard, his
heart a stone. Still he was a human being, for, like others, he cherished hobbies.
His hobbies, however, were not of that class which is compassed about by rest
and roses. Instead, they were clothed with a stern delight born of defiance and
danger. To work his ship across the Bay in the teeth of an adverse gale; to
weather a lee shore; to master a rebellious crew single-handed--these were the
wild diversions which satisfied him. Once, in the China seas, his men grew
mutinous, said the ship was "leaking like a lobster-pot," and straightway put her
about for Singapore; swore they did not care what the skipper thought--in fact,
would like to talk to him a bit. The skipper was below when the first mate brought
down the news and a very pale face as well.
"Tell the men to muster!"
So soon as the mate's back was turned, John Anderson took a revolver from a
locker and charged it; then, ascending the companion-ladder, he walked to the
break of the poop, with his hands buried in the pockets of a pea-jacket. Down
below him were the men, lolling about in a sullen crowd on the weather side of
the quarter-deck. They were thirty or forty in number, and were a vicious-looking
set.
"Now then, my men! Half an hour ago we were steering due northeast. Who was
it dared to lay the ship's nose the other way?"
The burly boatswain swung his way out of the crowd, planted his foot on the first
step of the poop-ladder, and stared up at the captain.
"I did, and be damned to you!" roared he. There was a loud report. The
boatswain dropped, shot in the leg. And the crew shivered under a gleaming eye
and a gleaming weapon.
"All hands 'bout ship!" cried the master. The wounded boatswain, raising himself
for a moment on one hand, piped faintly, and fell back unconscious. But the men
were already at their stations, and in five minutes more the Chrysolite was
heading northeast again.
Such incidents as these gave John Anderson an unenviable reputation among
sailors. It was seldom that the same crew served him twice. Two voyages under
this tartar were more than could be stood, and from his subordinates, therefore,
he gained nothing but hatred and fear.
It was very difficult, then, to find out where Captain Anderson's weakness lay.
Everybody, of course, has his weakness. But this man appeared to be all
strength. His whole life seemed like a rod of burnished steel--a passion-proof life,
a fire-proof rod. The owners of the Chrysolite, Messrs. Ruin & Ruin, of Billiter
Street, piqued themselves on knowing his tender point. He was avaricious,
thought they; he would do much for money, and they would some day try him in
