“They’re doing the same aft,” he said. “Ivan, the grand juke, is leadin’ in the prayin’ or whatever it is. I never saw such a crew for talking. I don’t know who are passengers and who are workin’ the ship. I wish I’d studied Russian.”
“Wot good would that do?” asked Mike Monkey. “They wouldn’t reveal their secret plans to us. Wot did they bring the rifle aboard for? Wot’s to prove we ain’t shipmates with a howlin’ bunch of anarchists? They’re quiet now. Them twa in the stokehold only look at me and chew on their beards when Ah give orders. They’re waitin’ for somethin’!”
Micky strode across the bridge. He gazed sadly at the ripples that curved from the Shongpong’s straight bow. He estimated the speed of the ship to be not more than seven knots an hour. There was no bridge-rail log.
He came back to Mike Monkey and Red Landyard.
“Briefly stated,” ye said, “we’re in the ’ands of Providence. Anything is likely to ’appen with all that talking fore and aft. The course the grand juke gave me is to the Pacific—by the nearest strait. I’m ’olding that course. That’s all I know. I ’ave a wife and children at ’ome. I was thinkin’ of them when I took the contract to work this ship to Victoria.”
Mike studied the little skipper’s dungaree jacket and unshaven face.
“How many Russians are there aboard?” he asked.
“Sixty or seventy.”
“Then Ah resign if it comes to blows. Ah am weak from starving on the beach of Novgorod. All Ah have been able to find to eat on this hooker is caviar and salt fish. Ah would as soon eat clinkers.”
A door slid open aft. A rolling voice struck forward. Ivan appeared, followed by two Russians. They were wrapped to the beards in great coats trimmed with fur. They climbed the bridge-ladder and stared at the binnacle.