"Ain't you goin' ter give 'em a chanst?" cried the cockney with his shrill squeak.
Things began to look nasty. The men gathered round the main-hatch. Some of them drew knives, others pulled belaying-pins from the rail, and fists were shaken wildly at the old man as he stood at the break of the poop, roaring:
"Git forrard, yew rakin's an' scrapin's o' hell an' Sing-sing, git forrard, or I'll blow the guts outer some o' yer," and he lifted his Winchester threateningly.
A belaying-pin whirled and nearly knocked it out of his hands, whilst Angelino's knife stuck quivering in the rail before him.
"Jump up hyeh, bosun!" he jerked rapidly. "Steward, whar' are yew?"
"Here, sir!" called the steward at his back.
"Fetch my pistols an' git the hell of a gait on yer."
"Here they be's, sir," said the steward meekly, thrusting them forward.
He was a well-trained steward, and had been through this sort of business with Captain Bob Riley before.