“It’s my money, my own money, understand?” Hal spat at him. “Every penny of it’s mine. He didn’t want me to have it just yet, but I’m going to, and you’re not going to blow on me! If you do—”
He loosed his hold, snatched down from its supporting hooks the Malay kris, and with it gripped in hand confronted the trembling, half-fainting cook.
“See this, Ezra?” And Hal shook the envenomed blade before the poor old fellow’s horror-smitten eyes.
“Master—Master Hal!”
“If you breathe so much as one syllable to the captain, I’ll split you with this knife, as sure as I’m a foot high! What? Butting in on me, in my own house, are you? Like hell! Take a slant at this knife here, and see how you’d like it through your guts!”
He raised it as if to strike. Ezra cowered, shrinking with the imminent terror of death.
“Master Hal, oh, fer God’s sake, now—”
“You’re going to keep your jaw-tackle quiet, are you, to the captain?”
“I—I—”
Wickedly Hal slashed at him. Ezra opened his mouth, no doubt to cry aloud, but Hal clapped a sinewed hand over it, and slammed him back against the wall.