Here, all of a sudden, Macey threw up the blade of his oar, and at a pull or two from Vane, the boat’s keel grated on the pebbly sand.
“What’s that for?” cried Gilmore, who had been half asleep as he sat right back in the stern, with his hands holding the sides.
“Time to go back,” said Macey. “Want my corn.”
“He means his thistle,” said Distin, rousing himself to utter a sarcastic remark.
“Thistle, if you like,” said Macey, good-humouredly. “Donkey enjoys his thistle as much as a horse does his corn, or you did chewing sugar-cane among your father’s niggers.”
It was an unlucky speech, and like a spark to gunpowder.
Distin sprang up and made for Macey, with his fists doubled, but Vane interposed.
“No,” he said; “no fighting in a boat, please. Gilmore and I don’t want a ducking, if you do.”
There was another change in the Creole on the instant. The fierce angry look gave place to a sneering smile, and he spoke in a husky whisper.
“Oh, I see,” he said, gazing at Vane the while, with half-shut eyes. “You prompted him to say that.”