“Open the door,” he said.
Frank complied.
On a tumbled berth lay the form of “Black George,” with head bandaged, recumbent, relaxed, breathing heavily. In a corner on the floor, as
if tossed there by the action of the ship, half lay, half crouched a little fat man with gray hair and ragged gray mustache. As Frank opened the door he looked up, through bleared eyes, ceased mumbling and stared in fright.
“Don’t take me, Mr. Devil. Please don’t take me,” he pleaded piteously.
Frank was thrust aside by Matt Murphy, who had come to investigate. Despite his broken arm, which must have been giving him great pain, the latter advanced to the cowering form in the corner.
“Why, you’re not even drunk,” he said, after a moment’s scrutiny. “I believe you’re just scared. Come. Out wit’ ye.”
Seizing the other’s collar with his sound arm Murphy started to drag him into the salon. It was the boy’s first sight of the man taking care of “Black George.” Since they had come aboard he had not left the cabin to their knowledge. Chinese servants had taken his food to him. For that matter, they had seen nobody in authority except Matt Murphy. First mate? Second mate? Engineer? If the vessel owned them, at least they had not been seen.
Now the frightened little fat man grasped Murphy by a leg and almost pulled him to the floor. He babbled incoherently. Murphy tugged at him a moment, then tossed him back into his corner in disgust and
started to withdraw. His eyes fell on the still form of “Black George.” He stooped over him, raised his eyelids, let them fall, and with an oath of disgust quit the cabin for the main salon, slamming the door behind him.