"You hear what Mr. Woodcock says, Curt?" asked Morgan.
"I hear it," Warren, in a curious tone. He smoothed at his whiskers and looked meditatively at the scimitar.
"And you're willing to admit the mistake," pursued Morgan, "and let bygones be bygones if Mr. Woodcock is? Righto! Of course Mr. Woodcock will realise from a busi-ncss point of view he no longer has any right to ask for that testimonial…"
"Hank, old man," said Mr. Woodcock, with great earnestness, "what I say is, To hell with the testimonial. And the bug-powder business too. This isn't my game, and I might as well admit it. I can sell things — there's not a better little spieler on the European route than Charley R. Woodcock, if I do say it myself — but for the big business side of it, ixnay. No soap. Through. But I'm entirely willing, old man, to give you all the help I can. You see I kept bumping myself against the wall down there in that cell until the sailor looked in; and finally I got the gag out of my mouth. Well, he released me and went off to find the captain. And I'd better tell you—"
From somewhere on the other side of the deck rose a shout. A door wheezed and slammed, and the clatter of feet rushed nearer.
"There he goes!" said a voice and, rising above it, they heard the view-halloo bellow of Captain Whistler.
"Don't run!" wheezed Valvick. "Don't run, ay tell you, or you may run into him. Down de companion-ladder— 'ere! — all of you. Watch! Maybe dey don't see… "
As the distant din of pursuit grew, Valvick shoved the Moorish warrior down the steps and the Bermondsey Terror after him. The Bug-powder Boy, full of new terrors, tumbled down first. Crouching on the iron steps beside Valvick, Morgan thrust his head up to look along C deck. And he saw a rather impressive sight. He saw Uncle Jules.
Far up ahead, faint and yet discernible in the dim lights, Uncle Jules turned the corner round the forward bulkhead and moved majestically towards them. The breeze blew up his fringe of hair like a halo. His gait was intent, determined, even with a hint of stateliness; yet in it there were the cautious indications of one who suspects he is being followed. A lighted porthole attracted his attention. He moved towards it, so that his red, determined, screwed-up face showed leering against the fight. He stuck his head partly inside.
"Sh-h-h!" said Uncle Jules, lifting his finger to his lip.