"Sharp—blunt!" said Mike, tapping first the fingers then the wrist of the covering hand, which Cockney then lifted. The pointed end of the splinter was toward the fingers, the blunt toward the wrist. Mike looked at Scholar, but at that moment there arrived, from his patching and his sleep amidships under the steward's care, Michael, one eye under a blind, the other riveting an imploring gaze upon Mike.
"Come over, Michael," said Mike, in a tone of resignation.
"I'll have——" snapped Cockney, and out shot his hand and he pointed to Scholar.
"No, you won't!" roared Mike.
"It's his pick!" shouted Rafferty
"I don't give a curse," said Mike. "I'll——"
"You'll do wot?" Cockney interrupted.
"Can't do it, Mike," said Candlass quietly, "it's his pick."
"I'm after doin' this," persisted Mike doggedly, "for everybody's sake. I want Scholar meself, but I'm takin' Michael from him, for they've sane enough of each other. He can pick somebody else for Michael, if he's half a man, and then I'll begin afresh with Scholar. Come over here, me lad; ye're picked."
"Oh, hall right!" said Cockney, "There's somethink in that."