“Ye shameless buccaneers that push your way into the tracks of honest men, where the Company’s been three hundred years by the will o’ God—if it wasn’t for me, ye Jack Sheppards—”
Wiley and Hatchett both got to their feet with pretended rage, saying he’d insulted them both, that he was all froth and brawn, and giving him the lie.
Utterly taken aback, Macavoy could only stare, puffing in his beard, and drawing in his legs, which had been spread out at angles. He looked from Wiley to the impassive Pierre. “Buccaneers, you callus,” Wiley went on; “well, we’ll have no more of that, or there’ll be trouble at Fort O’Angel.”
“Ah, sure y’are only jokin’,” said Macavoy, “for I love ye, ye scoundrels. It’s only me fun.”
“For fun like that you’ll pay, ruffian!” said Hatchett, bringing down his fist on the table with a bang.
Macavoy stood up. He looked confounded, but there was nothing of the coward in his face. “Oh, well,” said he, “I’ll be goin’, for ye’ve got y’r teeth all raspin’.”
As he went the two men laughed after him mockingly. “Wind like a bag,” said Hatchett. “Bone like a marrow-fat pea,” added Wiley.
Macavoy was at the door, but at that he turned. “If ye care to sail agin’ that wind, an’ gnaw on that bone, I’d not be sayin’ you no.”
“Will to-night do—at sunset?” said Wiley.
“Bedad, then, me b’ys, sunset’ll do—an’ not more than two at a time,” he added softly, all the roar gone from his throat. Then he went out, followed by Pierre.