"Come along," he said to Beekman, "an' you'll be sorry you ever done it."
Without looking behind him, he sprang up the ladder and, followed closely by Beekman, he went aft, descended the companionway, and found Captain Fish seated at the cabin table, on which a huge joint of cold meat and bread were spread out, with some bottles and glasses to bear them company. The captain was not alone. The steward, a Spanish half-caste, named Manuel, had just brought in a steaming pot of coffee from the galley.
"Well, Mr. Woywod," began Fish, "what about that infernal lubber that caused the loss of the mainto'gall'nt mast?"
"Smith, here, has come aft demandin' to see you an' p'r'aps he'll tell you. Will you see him?"
"What is it, Smith?" said the captain, sharply.
"Seaman Wramm," began Beekman, "is probably dying. I'm not a doctor, but so near as I can make out he has a fractured skull; his jaw is certainly broken and he is covered with bruises."
"How came he in that condition?" asked the captain.
"That murdering blackguard yonder struck him over the head with a belaying pin, kicked him when he was down and--"
"By God!" cried Woywod, springing forward, "you dare refer to me in that way?"
"Steady, Mr. Woywod," said Fish, his eyes gleaming. "I know how to deal with this man. Are you aware--you pretend to be a gentleman of education--that your language is in the highest degree mutinous, that I can have you put in double irons, and--"