Whistler, strangled with incoherent fury, "so that's the man, is it, who burst in there and — and launched the m-most murderous attack on us that—"
"Sure it is, sir," said the hardly less sane voice of Sccond-Officer Baldwin. "Look at him! Look at those arms and shoulders! Nobody but somebody used to swinging those-marionettes day after day could've had the
strength to hit like that. There's nobody on the ship who could've done it else…"
"Ho?" muttered the Bermondsey Terror, starting violently.
"Shh!" hissed Captain Valvick.
"… No, sir," pursued Baldwin, "he's not a crook. But he's a notorious drunkard. I know all about him. A drunkard, and that's the sort of thing he does… "
"Pardonnez-moi, messieurs," rumbled a polite if muffled voice from under what appeared to be many bodies. " Est-ce-que vous pouvez me donner du gin?"
"He — he threw that — that emer—" Whistler gulped amid strange noises. "But what about — those — young Morgan — Sharkmeat — those—"
Somebody's heels clicked. A new voice put in: "Will you let me offer an explanation, sir? I'm Sparks, sir. I saw part of it from my cousin's cabin. If you'll let me tell you, sir, that young fellow and the Swede weren't trying to steal — you know. They were trying to return it. I saw them. They're close friends of Miss Glenn, this man's niece; and I should think they were trying to cover him up after the old drunk had stolen it…"
"From Dr. Kyle's cabin? What the hell do you mean? They—"