“Ezra! What is it? For Heaven’s sake, Ezra, what’s Hal done to you?”
The old man could make no answer. Limply he sagged against the newel-post, a sorry picture of grief and pain. The captain put an arm about his shoulders, and with burning indignation cried:
“What did he do? Hit you?”
Ezra shook his head in stout negation. Even through all the shock and suffering of the blow, his loyalty remained sublimely constant.
“Hit me? Why, no, sir,” he tried to smile, though his lips were white. “He wouldn’t strike old Ezra. There’s no mutiny aboard this little craft of ours. Two gentlemen may disagree, an’ all that, but as fer Master Hal strikin’ me, no, sir!”
“But I heard him say—”
“Oh, that’s nothin’, cap’n,” the old cook insisted, still, however, keeping his cheek-bone covered with his hand. “Boys will be boys. They’re a bit loose with their jaw-tackle, maybe. But there, there, don’t you git all har’red up, captain. Men an’ pins is jest alike, that way—no good ef they lose their heads. Ca’m down, cap’n!”
“What’s that on your face. Blood?”
“Blood, sir? How would blood git on my doggone face, anyhow? That’s—h-m—”
“Don’t you lie to me, Ezra! I’m not blind. He cut you with something! What was it?”