Black Pawl banged the rail with his fist, as though he would smash the words she had spoken. He flung his hand toward the beach. “See, Red’s overtaking him,” he taunted.
“He is not,” she protested. “He is trying; but he never will.”
The Captain said: “I’ll make a bet with you on that!”
“What will you bet?” she demanded.
“A kiss against a—cask of oil.” He watched her covertly, and hated himself for the word he had said.
She did not answer him directly; she was looking toward the beach, and she said: “It’s too late. See; Dan is there.”
He saw the men leaping from the second mate’s boat on the sand a mile away. “Aye,” he said. “So—the cask of oil is yours. There’s nothing better for the soft skin of your cheeks. Good sperm—”
“But I didn’t take your wager,” she reminded him gravely.
“If I’d won, I should have collected,” he told her. “Take your winnings and be glad you won.”
She looked at him, studied the drawn face and the sunken eyes of the man; and her heart welled suddenly with pity for him. He was sick on his feet, sick with the poison of fatigue and the poison of drink, and she touched his arm with sudden contrition. “Come,” she said, “I shouldn’t have kept you here on deck. You ought to be in bed. Come.”