The voice laughed again and ceased.
“Who spoke there?” Captain Kettle demanded.
Out rolled into the bright circle the massive body of the donkeyman.
“You!”
The donkeyman knuckled his greasy cap in assent.
“I’m your man, Capt’n,” he said, “but I’d be pleaseder to help ye carrying out the crew’s wishes than going agin them. You’ll be dealt by honustly, Capt’n—liberally—yes, better than ye ever have been in this world yet, or ever will be again—an’ the steamer will be lost at say. Blowed to rivuts an’ ould iron by a conspirathor’s bomb. It’s a most natural ending for her.”
Kettle stared at the donkeyman with his mouth agape, and the eyes standing out of his head. His face was thrust out at full neck’s length; his fingers beat a vague tattoo on the white iron rail of the bridge.
Then the crew’s original spokesman lifted up his unlucky voice for the second time: “Ach, vriends, we’re vasting minutes. We haf made up our mindts. Why should we not go und tivide ter cold mitout furder pother? Cood Ole Man! come and sgramble for a share like ter rest of us.”
Slowly Captain Kettle stiffened. His eyes lost their stare and glinted unpleasant fire in their more proper orbits; his lower jaw closed up with a snap; his fists slid to his jacket pockets and gripped there.