"Didn't kill Trego!" he said, amazed. "I know you didn't kill Trego, but you had the red chap do it for you."
"No, I didn't. The money I gave that little devil was for bringing my bag on board, and he told you that I paid him for killing Trego so that Meeker, or Thirkle, would get me out of the way. I tell you that I am not with that gang. Give me a gun, and I'll help you in this fight."
"Who's that dead man on the deck?" he asked. "How come you down here?"
"That's Harris. Thirkle and Buckrow killed him."
"Thirkle! There's no Thirkle aboard here. Thirkle! Why, that's—"
"Thirkle," I said, "is the Rev. Luther Meeker. He is the head of the whole gang."
"Then poor Harris was right," he moaned, feeling for a chest and sitting down upon it. "Harris was right." I could hear despair in his voice—he was master no longer, but a broken, dispirited old man.
"Cheer up, captain; we'll beat them yet," I said as cheerily as I could.
"We're lost," he moaned. "Light the slush-lamp,—they won't bother us now."
"But let's get on deck and give them a fight," I said. "It won't do any good to stay down here—"