The scene held a certain dramatic quality. Pierre was seated on the cabin table, one foot swinging slightly, his arms folded, a scowl of disapproval on his high-boned face. Ben stood before him truculently, a bit shaken by the shock of the accident and more than a little angry in consequence.
Dare kept in the background as much as possible, as Ben had directed.
"Well?" rasped Pierre.
"No, it's not well, mister," burst out Ben, indignant at this insolent reception, for Pierre, far from expressing any regret for the accident, seemed to expect regret to come from the other side. "No, it's not well, and if that's all you've got to say there'll be trouble."
"What's your grouch, anyhow?" demanded Pierre. "I didn't run you down. You ran under my bows, didn't you, when I had the right of way?"
Ben gasped at the impudent assertion. "But you wasn't showin' no lights," he shouted. "How'll you account fer that?"
"And what about yourself?" demanded Pierre. "Where were your lights? My men didn't see them."
"That's got nothin' to do with it. I was runnin' a small punt. Expect me to have port and starboard lights on a fishin' punt? It's you, mister, who'll have to answer that question, and before a court, and right soon."
Dare, who was observing the growing blackness of Pierre's face, thought Ben was going a little too far. The moment was inopportune to interrupt, however.
"What do you mean by talking about a court?" asked Pierre, ominously quiet.