“Of course it was, stupid,” snarled Rasp, turning on the old sailor fiercely, “but the cartridges wouldn’t go off by themselves, would they?”
“You said he was better, doctor,” said the captain.
“Yes, so much so that the change was puzzling.”
“This was his work, then,” cried the captain. “He was well enough to take some terrible revenge upon us.”
“And to perish himself in accomplishing it,” said Dutch.
“Don’t know that,” said the captain. “One of the boats has gone.”
“But it may have been destroyed in the explosion.”
The captain shook his head and walked to the side where the ropes and blocks hanging from the davits showed plainly enough that a boat had been lowered down.
As he pointed to this the diabolical plot was made perfectly manifest, and its objects saw plainly enough how the villain had compassed their destruction.
“And I was so deceived,” exclaimed the doctor, stamping upon the deck in his rage. “The scoundrel was ill at first, but the latter part of the time it was subterfuge. Dutch Pugh, this is my fault. I must go back to hospital to learn my profession.”