There was a long silence while O’Brien leaned panting against the rail and the others strained their fascinated eyes to see if Van Arsdale’s body would appear. But there was no break on the surface of the sea. Only Hank found his voice. For want of a better listener he addressed Brown. Prodding him recklessly with the muzzle of his new automatic, he demanded, “Didn’t I say so? Sure I did!”
But Brown made no reply. A man who can feel the exact shape of a gun muzzle against his third rib never feels in the mood for bandying words. He stood quite still. Brown knew that for him the end had come. He lowered his wolfish head and cringed. Even when they put him in irons he did not speak.
O’Brien was the first to collect himself. He opened his coat, and parting the slashed cloth traced the course of a clean-cut scratch that commenced at the left breast and curved downward for twelve inches. He turned and showed it to Hank and Bill. A trickle of blood marked its course.
“Gee!” said Bill.
“That’s going to leave a scar,” said Hank hopefully.
“Naw, it won’t!” Bill retorted.
“It will if he rubs salt in it,” said Hank.
“Well, what in time would he do that for?” the much-tried Bill wanted to know.
“Why, salt is an epidemic,” said Hank. “Best thing in the world!”
“Whadder you mean: epidemic?” demanded Bill.