“Hah?”
“‘Sir!’” bellowed Brack, and even the sodden plug-ugly blinked in alarm at the menace in his tones. But only for a moment. He was a true fighting brute, Garvin; his courage only swelled at a challenge.
“Step out here an’ put up yer mitts, Bo,” he snapped. “I’m Bill Garvin; who the —— are you?”
From the bridge came Chanler’s cynical cackle.
“He wants an introduction, cappy,” he chuckled. “Come, come; let’s have your come-back.”
Brack smiled in his old suave manner as he looked up at Chanler, but as he turned away the smile changed to a black scowl. He looked steadily at Garvin for several seconds, and it grew very quiet.
Garvin started a little in surprise and fright, as if suddenly he had seen something in Brack’s face which he had not expected to find there. He was a stubborn fighting brute, however, and instinct told him to charge when in fear. He leaped at Brack, his fists held taut; and an instant later he was on his back on the deck, screaming in agony, his hands covering his scalded face.
Then for the first time I saw the hose-nozzle that the captain had concealed beneath his folded arms. He had been standing so that his broad back entirely concealed the hose, running from a fire-plug in the wall. So the fighter had rushed, open-eyed, open-mouthed, against a two-inch stream of hot water which swept him off his feet and left him groveling and screaming on the deck.
“Ha!” said George Chanler. “Sharp repartee that, cappy—though a bit rough.”
Brack found Garvin’s hands, neck, head with the water, and suddenly turned it off.