"Nice music, captain," said Holgate's wheezing voice.
"I'll give you just three seconds to quit, or I'll put a hole through you, you infernal rascal," said Barraclough savagely, raising his revolver.
"Oh, we're in no hurry," said the mutineer cheerfully, and moved away.
I suppose that some gleam of reason prevented Barraclough from firing. He barred the windows afresh, and came back to me.
"Why the mischief doesn't he attack?" he exclaimed peevishly.
I did not know, but I was near guessing just then. In point of fact, I did guess that afternoon. I paid my usual visit to the forecastle and the hold. Legrand played the same farce with remarkable persistence, and I was no longer puzzled by him. He was biding his time, like Holgate, and his reasons were obvious. Holgate's dawned on me just then—but some of them only, as you shall see during the progress of this narrative.
He maintained his friendliness, inquired civilly after our health, and how the ladies bore the seclusion.
"I wish I could make it easier for them, but I can't, doctor," he said amiably.
He was an abominable liar, but I had a certain admiration for his effrontery. I was glad I could meet him on his own ground, so I answered deliberately:
"Of course, it would spoil your plans to get the job over."