“Shut up, Satan!” came a drowsy voice from the deck.
“Shut up yourself!” said Satan. “I’m not talkin’ of what you mean: I’m talkin’ of the abalone reef—lyin’ there like a lazy dog and lippin’ your betters!”
“Where’s me betters?” cried Jude, sitting bang-up suddenly, like the corpse in “Thou art the man.”
“I’m your betters.”
“You!”
“Me!”
Jude broke into a cracked laugh.
“Listen to him talkin’!” cried she to the universe in general. “Ain’t fit to bile potatoes!” She was on her feet, and he was after her with a rope’s end, dodging her round the mast. “Touch me and I’ll tell him!” A flick of the rope’s end caught her, and next moment she was clinging to Ratcliffe and using him as her shield. “It’s an old ship sunk south o’ Rum Key!” cried Jude. “South o’ Rum Key! I told you I’d tell him if you touched me.”
Satan dropped the rope and resumed the gooseneck business.
“Now you’ve done it!” said he.