“And ’bacco?”
“Of course.”
“And I ain’t to be a common sailor?”
“No, under me you shall have command of the ship, as far as navigation goes.”
“Then I’m on,” said Sam Oakum, giving his leg a slap, after a glance at the armed men on one side and his captive superiors on the other.
There was a murmur of dissatisfaction from the captain and the others at this secession, and Oakum turned upon them sharply.
“What are you a growling about?” he exclaimed, throwing off his former tones of respect. “You can’t spect a man to stick to you always. Your game’s up, his is on.—I’m going on his side. Why not? I’m a pore man, and I shall be a pore one if I don’t make some tin this trip.”
“You’re quite right, my lad,” said Lauré, slapping him on the shoulder, and then turning a malignant look on his prisoners.
“One must know which way his bread’s buttered,” growled Sam. “Say, my lads,” he continued, to Rolls and Lennie, “you can go down and be boxed up under hatches if you like, only if I was you I should say to the new skipper, ‘Give’s twenty of them bars a piece, and we’ll stick to you to the end.’”
“I’ll give you twenty ingots a piece, my lads,” said Lauré. “Will you come over?”