He was turning away when Nicklestick intercepted him.
“What do you think they would do, Mr. Percival?” he inquired in some agitation. “We are gentlemen. We got a right to decide for ourselves vat we shall do. We can pay for—”
“You will find a lot of gentlemen out there who have already decided for themselves,—and very cheerfully, too. You will not be lonely. If you desire any further information as to the class of labourers you will come in contact with, Mr. Nicklestick, I would suggest a careful study of the first cabin list, the second cabin list, and finally the third cabin list, if you can find such a thing. You will also run up against some excellent material from the United States Navy, to say nothing of a fine lot of able seamen. They've adopted a common name. Do you know what they call each other?”
“No,” said Nicklestick, wiping his brow. “Vat—vat do they call each other?”
“Men,” said Percival, and walked away.
He was followed closely by Careni-Amori and Olga Obosky, and at some distance by the whispering, gesticulating Jews. The great soprano was profoundly agitated. Obosky, a pace or two behind her, was tense and silent. Her head was slightly bent. There was a strange, dog-like expression in her eyes as they regarded the back of Percival's head.
“But what will you do?” Careni-Amori was crying, as she clutched his arm. “He is a great man. He is a millionaire. He owns part of this steamship line,—so he have inform me. You will not throw him into the water,—yes?”
“As sure as you are a foot high, Madame Careni-Amori,” said he, grimly.
“Oh, mon Dieu! You hear him, Obosky? He means what he have say.”
“Be careful, my friend,” said Obosky, drawing alongside of Percival. “Do you not see how the wind blows?”