“You painted Dutchman!”
The crew rustled uneasily.
“Do I live to hear a set of dogs like you dictating to me? Does any man here think he’s going to have an inch of his own way aboard of me?”
“Come, Captain Kettle,” said the quartermaster, who had talked before, “don’t be unreasonable. The Dutchman means well, though he didn’t put it Bristol fashion. And besides, we’ve made up our minds to share in that gold, and you’d better chip in and share too, without a dust. It’ll be a deal comfortabler for all hands, and besides, it’s got to be done, anyway. We’re all determined, and we’re too many for you, even if Mr. Onslow does stand in on your side.”
Kettle’s face lit up with the joy of battle. “Are you, by James!” he snapped. “We’ll see about that. I’d handle twice your number to my own cheek any day. I done it before, on a dashed sight uglier lot than you, and came out top side; and I’m going to do it again now. Mr. Onslow’s with me, too, this time, and we’ve got twenty bullets amongst us that’ll all go home in somebody’s ribs before any of you get at hand-grips with us. Now just play on that, you scum. There’s not a one of you got a pistol.”
“Oh! haven’t we?” commented a nasal voice on the outskirts of the crowd, “I guess you’re out there, mister. I’m heeled for one.”
Crack!
The man shrieked and fell in a limp heap on the deck. His weapon clattered down beside him. Kettle kept his smoking pistol-muzzle raised steady as an iron wrist could hold it.
The others instinctively drew at first away from the fallen man; but one ordinary seaman, younger and more plucky than the rest, darted forward to regain the fallen revolver. As his fingers closed over it, his eyes instinctively sought the bridge. Onslow had his revolver sighted over the crook of an elbow; Kettle his at arm’s length. Both were covering him.
“Fling that thing overboard, or you’ll be dead before you can wink!”