"I'm not a funk in the open," grumbled Murray, "and you know it. You've seen me handle a crew. But I'm in a kind of cellar here, and can't get out, and if anybody chooses they can drop bricks on me, and I can't stop them. Have they been at you about those rifles, sir?"
"What rifles? No, nobody's said 'rifles' to me ashore here."
"It seems we've got some cases of rifles on board for one of those little ports up the coast. I didn't know it."
"Nor did I," said Kettle, "and you can take it from me that we haven't. Smuggling rifles ashore is a big offence here in the Persian Gulf, and I'm not going to put myself in the way of the law, if I know it."
"Well, I think you're wrong, sir," said the Mate. "I believe they're in some cases that are down on the manifest as 'machinery.' I saw them stowed down No. 3 hold, and I remember one of the stevedores in London joking about them when they were struck below."
"Supposing they were rifles, what than?"
"Rad wants them. He says they're consigned to some of his neighbors up coast, who'll raid him as soon as they're properly armed; and he doesn't like the idea. What raiding's done, he likes to do himself, and at the same time he much prefers good Brummagen rifles to the local ironmonger's blunderbusses."
"Well," said Kettle, "I'm waiting to hear what he thought you could do with the rifles supposing they were on board."
"Oh, he expected me to broach cargo and bring them here ashore to him. He's a simple-minded savage."
"By James!" said Kettle, "the man's mad. What did he think I should be doing whilst one of my mates was scoffing cargo under my blessed nose?"