“Cappy,” said he, “this is what they call mutiny in stories, isn’t it?”
“No, sir,” said Brack promptly. “Mutiny is the refusal of seamen to obey their captain. None of these men has refused to obey me.”
“Hah? Come again, cappy.”
“I have given them no orders which they have refused to obey.”
“You mean—you’re in with ’em, eh?”
“I mean that it would be a crime against us for this expedition to continue on its original course without first investigating, at least, the story which the miner has told. There may be much gold there; certainly there is some. You have more money than you need, Chanler; we haven’t enough to make our lives comfortable.”
“This voyage is a pastime to you; to us it’s a means of making a living. The bones at Petroff Sound will keep. I have this suggestion to make: that we alter the course of the yacht and go to Kalmut Fiord. There will be more credit for you if you lead the way to a new gold field than if you come back with a hold full of old bones. And it will be much easier and pleasant, I assure you.”
“You—you’re not threatening, cappy?” said George.
“Not at all. I am merely asking you to see this thing from our point of view.”
“‘Our? Our point of view?’ You’re not one of the crew are you, cappy?”