"Thirkle is supposed to be the name of the Devil's Admiral."
"And Thirkle is—"
"Our Rev. Luther Meeker, Mr. Trenholm. We are dead men."
CHAPTER XI
A COUNCIL OF WAR
"We are dead men," repeated Riggs, smiling grimly. "We'll never see another day. This slick devil will be back in Manila or up the China coast, praying his way out of the country with the gold cached somewhere to wait until he comes for it. He can take enough of it with him to buy a schooner—part of it is in Bank of England notes—but the Rev. Luther Meeker will never be heard from again, because he sailed in the Kut Sang."
"He won't!" I raged, testing the weight of the belaying-pin. "I'll batter my way out of here and take him by the throat if it's the last act of my life! If you won't fight, I will!"
I braced my feet on the plunging deck of the forecastle and shook my head like a maddened animal. The seas outside assailed our bows, and their fury thrilled me, and seemed a part of my desire to slay. I tore off my jacket and started for the scuttle with the belaying-pin gripped in my hand, bent on battering down the barrier which kept us from the upper deck.
"Not that," said Riggs, seizing me. "You'll have them down upon us, or they'll turn the firehose down the scuttle and drown us like rats. I've broken too many mutinies, Mr. Trenholm. You can't do that."
"But let's do something," I pleaded. "We might as well be planning something as to be sitting here weeping over what has happened."