A figure detached itself from the mass on the weirdly lighted deck below and, approaching the perch of the three officers, came to a halt almost directly below them. The light of a lantern fell fairly on the upturned, smiling face of Olga Obosky.
“What is the hour, Captain Trigger?” she inquired.
“Almost nine, Madame Obosky.
“That is nearly two bells, eh, yes? How peaceful you look up there, you three old owls.”
“Come up!” invited the Captain cheerily. She joined them a moment later. “Tell me, are they leaving a shred of Percival and his band of outlaws?”
Mr. Codge struck a match and held it for her to light a cigarette. She inhaled deeply and then expelled the smoke in what seemed like a prolonged sigh of satisfaction.
“They are very funny, those women,” she said, placing her elbows on the rail and looking down at the crowd. “Do you know what the trouble is now? It is this: they cannot think of a way to condemn the action of those men as a body without also including Mr. Percivail in the verdict.”
“How's that?”
“Ninety-five per cent, of them want to exonerate Mr. Percivail, but they don't know how to do it in view of the fact that he is the guiltiest man of them all. That's why I say they are very funny, those women. They approve of what he has done in naming the baby, because whatever he does must be right, but they are almost unanimous in charging that all the other men out there were wrong. So they are in a great dilemma.”
Captain Trigger laughed. “I see. What was Miss Clinton's position in the debate?”