He dragged a pistol from his belt and cocked it.
“Do you hear?” cried Mazzard again. “I’m captain now, and if any man dares to say I’m not, let him—Well, no, I won’t give him time to say his prayers!”
He stared round the ring of people, of which he now formed the centre, the pistol barrel pointing all round, as if its holder were in search of a mark.
Just then Bart stepped forward, but Jack drew him aside.
“No; let me speak,” he said.
“Oh, it’s you, is it, my whipper-snapper!” cried Mazzard, scornfully. “There, we had enough of your little baby of a brother, and he’s dead; so now, if you want to keep your skin whole, go back to your place, and if you behave yourself I’ll make you my cabin-boy.”
Jack continued to advance, looking round at the crew, who, some fifty strong, had now hurried upon deck.
“D’yer hear?” roared Mazzard, who seemed brutally sober now. “Go back, or—”
He took aim at Jack with the pistol, and a murmur ran round the crew once more—a murmur which was turned to a shout of applause, for, gazing full at the drink inflamed countenance before him, Jack stepped right up to Mazzard and seized the pistol, which exploded in the air.
The next moment it was wrenched out of the ruffian’s hand, and sent flying over the side, to fall with a splash in the sea.