Horne—And when you said he’d get no share of it, didn’t he lie to your face that it wasn’t gold—thinkin’ we’d leave it be and he’d git it all for himself?
Bartlett—[With sudden rage.] Aye, brass and junk, he said, the lyin’ scum! That’s what he keeps sayin’ when I see him in sleep! He didn’t believe—makin’ a mock o’ me—an’ then he owned up himself ’twas gold! He knew! He lied a-purpose! He was a cunnin’ rat—a thief ashore afore they shipped him with us, I reckon.
Horne—[Eagerly.] Most like, sir.
Bartlett—[Rising to his feet—with confident defiance.] They deserved no better nor they got. Let ’em rot! [Pouring out another drink for himself and Horne.] We’ll drink, an’ then ye get back to the ship. Tell Cates and Jimmy we sail at dawn—sure! [He drinks.]
Horne—Luck, sir! [He drinks. There is a knock at the door on the left followed by Mrs. Bartlett’s voice calling feebly, “Isaiah! Isaiah!” Bartlett starts but makes no answer. He seems suddenly sunk in gloom again. Horne turns to him questioningly.] It’s Mrs. Bartlett, sir. Shall I open the door?
Bartlett—No. I ain’t aimin’ to see her—yet awhile. [Then with sudden reasonless rage.] Let her in, damn ye! [Horne goes and unhooks the door. Mrs. Bartlett enters. She is a slight, slender little woman of fifty. Sickness, or the inroads of a premature old age, have bowed her shoulders, whitened her hair, and forced her to walk feebly with the aid of a cane. A resolute spirit still flashes from her eyes, however, and there is a look of fixed determination on her face. She stands gazing at her husband. There is something accusing in her stare.]
Bartlett—[Avoiding her eyes—brusquely.] Well? What is it ye want o’ me, Sarah?
Mrs. B.—I want to speak with you alone, Isaiah.
Horne—I’ll be gettin’ back aboard, sir. [Starts to go.]