[CHAPTER XXI—THROUGH THE PORTHOLE]
In a maze of doubt and resolution Stirling stared out over the dark harbour and saw that the band of outcasts had reached the shelving beach and were making preparations to swim to the ship.
He turned away and glanced toward the locked door. The sentry stirred restlessly; his gun's butt was lifted and dropped to the deck. A hacking cough sounded.
Steps glided across the poop from the forward rail to the cabin companion; a slide shot back; the sentry called and was answered. Then a key clicked in the lock of the door, and Marr stood in the gloom. Back of the little captain loomed two of the galley crowd. There was no mercy in their hard, level glances.
"Come on, Stirling," said the captain. "Step out and come with us. You're on trial. Search him, men."
Stirling backed step by step to the bunk, and secured the tiny revolver firmly in his palm. His broad thumb pressed through the trigger guard, and the feel of the cold metal decided him. He folded his arms, thrust the gun through to his skin, and allowed it to drop down.
The search, as Marr switched on the electric light, was done in haste. A Kanaka harpooner ran clumsy hands over Stirling's pockets. He turned and shook his head.
"Me find nothing."
"Bring him to the galley!" Marr ordered. "Watch him, too."
The sentry brought up the rear. Stirling breathed with deep intakes of the keen air as he crossed the quarter-deck and descended the lee-poop ladder. He entered the galley cabin with his head thrown back and his eyes blazing.