"How shall you set about it," asked the Commandant.
"By giving orders, and taking mighty big care that everybody on this ship carries them out."
Commandant Balliot rubbed at his close, scrubby beard, and bared his teeth viciously. Behind him, from the distant sandbank, the rebel bullets rapped unceasingly at the launch's iron plating. "But I am the senior in rank," he repeated again. "Officially I could not resign the command in your favor."
"Yes, I know. But here's the situation packed small: if you climb up, and do the large, and perch on your blessed rank, we shall probably see this day out, but we certainly sha'n't see another in. You're at the end of your string, and you can't deny it."
"But if you've a suggestion to make which will save us, make it, and I will act."
"No," snapped Kettle. "I'll either be boss and carry out my schemes my own way; or else, if we stay on as we are, I hold my tongue, and you can go on and arrange the funeral."
"If you can get us out of this mess--"
"I've said I can."
"Then I will let you take the command."
"Well and good. In the first place--"