“We can tell that better after he comes up,” was the reply of the captain, who kept his hand at his hip, where it could rest on the butt of his revolver. “But there is reason to believe that he isn’t disappointed.”
“And he breathes through these pipes that lie here?” pursued Brazzier, while the expression on the face of Pomp and Redvignez convinced Skipper Bergen that serious mischief was coming.
“You can see that without asking me,” replied he, stepping back a pace or two so as to keep the men before him.
“Well, if a man can’t get what air he wants, what is likely to happen?” continued Brazzier, with an insolent swagger that was exasperating, following upon his fawning sycophancy.
“Any fool would know that he would die.”
“Well, now that we’ve landed, I don’t see as there is any need of a mate or a captain neither, with this crew––do you, boys?”
And he turned toward his companions with a laugh.
“Of course not. The best place for him is in Davy Jones’ locker!” said Redvignez.
“Now you is talkin’ right!” was the characteristic comment of the negro, Pomp, who seemed the most eager of the three, when the mutiny had come to a head.