The poet gave a sigh of relief, and was going to pursue the subject further, when something fell upon his ear which turned his thoughts into a very different key.
“By James! there’s the engine stopped. What’s up now, I wonder?”
He jumped to his feet, and stood with neck craned out, listening. The ring of heavy boots made itself heard on the engine-room ladders. Then there was a murmur of voices and a pattering of footsteps from the forecastle, and presently a stream of men began to ascend the bridge-deck ladders. Amongst the growing babel of voices came references to the gold: “Half a million yellow sovereigns, boys!” and threats there was no mistaking. “Teach the old man manners, or put him over the side!”
By an evident previous arrangement the men were massing themselves on the port side of the bridge deck.
“Mutiny, by James!—that’s what this means!” commented Captain Kettle in an undertone.
He was cool as ice, and on the moment had decided how to act.
“Now, Mr. Onslow, slip into the chart-house for your pistol. I have mine in my pocket. It’s us two against the crowd of ’em, and we’ll finish out top side. Oh, don’t you make any error; it’ll be a red night’s work for those dogs. But we’ll rub the fear of death into them before we’ve done this time—into those that are left, that is. Get your pistol, quick, sir, and skin your eye for handy shooting!”
CHAPTER X.
MUTINY.
Patrick Onslow came out of the chart-house with all the armament he could lay hands upon; to wit, three revolvers. He gave one to the Captain and put the others in his own jacket pocket, so that they had a brace apiece. From the other side of the bridge-deck the clamor of the men rose high into the night; and the steamer’s fore-truck began to swing past the stars. Her engines had stopped, the quartermaster had deserted the wheel, and the Gulf Stream was taking her as simple flotsam whither it listed.