“And a precious ugly one too. Here, I don’t want to hurt you, so be off and lie down.”
He strode on one side, and then made at me, driving me to bay against the bulwark.
“Now then,” he cried, with an ugly laugh, which did not conceal his rage, “I’ve got you again, have I?”
“No,” said Gunson quietly, as he took him by the collar and swung him round, so that he staggered away; but he recovered himself and made at my protector. “Keep back! the boy is a friend of mine, and I will not have him touched.”
“Friend of yours, is he? Oh, then you want to fight, do you?”
“No,” said Gunson, standing firmly before him, “I don’t want to fight, neither do you, so go your way, and we’ll go ours.”
“After a bit, my lad,” cried the man, fiercely. “This isn’t England, but a country where a man can fight if he likes, so clear the course, some of you, and let’s see who’s best shot.”
He thrust his hand behind him, and pulled a revolver from his hip-pocket, cocking it as he spoke.
“Now then, out with your own,” he cried.
But Gunson seized the man’s wrist instead, gave it a wrench round, there was a sharp report, and the pistol fell heavily on the deck, and was secured by one of the sailors.