“Can't we run for it?”
“Run for it in a boat that's taking water like a sack! Our dory's gone. Suppose we get clear of the junk, and the 'Bertha' sank? Then what? If we only had our crew aboard; if we were only ten to their dozen—if we were only six—by Jupiter! I'd fight them for it.”
The two enormous red eyes of the junk loomed alongside and stared over into the “Bertha's” waist. Hoang and seven of the coolies swarmed aboard.
“What now?” shouted Moran, coming forward to meet them, her scowl knotting her flashing eyes together. “Is this ship yours or mine? We've done your dirty work for you. I want you clear of my deck.” Wilbur stood at her side, uncertain what to do, but ready for anything she should attempt.
“I tink you catchum someting, smellum pretty big,” said Hoang, his ferret glance twinkling about the schooner.
“I catchum nothing—nothing but plenty bad stink,” said Moran. “No, you don't!” she exclaimed, putting herself in Hoang's way as he made for the cabin. The other beach-combers came crowding up; Wilbur even thought he saw one of them loosening his hatchet in his belt.
“This ship's mine,” cried Moran, backing to the cabin door. Wilbur followed her, and the Chinamen closed down upon the pair.
“It's not much use, Moran,” he muttered. “They'll rush us in a minute.”
“But the ambergris is mine—is mine,” she answered, never taking her eyes from the confronting coolies.
“We findum w'ale,” said Hoang; “you no find w'ale; him b'long to we—eve'yt'ing in um w'ale b'long to we, savvy?”