Black Mazzard did what was a work of supererogation as he encountered Bart’s eye—he scowled, his face being villainous enough without.
“Well,” he said aloud, “I’ve warned you!” and he strode out of the old temple-chamber which formed the captain’s quarters, his heavy boots thrust down about his ankles sounding dull on the thick rugs spread over the worn stones, and then clattering loudly as he stepped outside.
“You two been quarrelling?” said Bart, sharply.
“The dog’s insolence is worse than ever!” cried the captain with flashing eyes. “Bart, I don’t want to shed the blood of the man who has been my officer, but—”
“Let someone else bleed him,” growled Bart. “Dick would; Dinny would give anything to do it. We’re ’bout tired of him. I should like the job myself.”
“Silence!” said the captain, sternly. “No, speak: tell me, what has been going on since I’ve been away?”
“Black Mazzard?”
The captain nodded.
“Half the time—well, no: say three-quarters—he’s been drunk, t’other quarter he’s spent in the south ruins preaching to the men.”
“Preaching?”