I was sore because he had snapped me up so short before them all. I thought my explanation should have been considered.
“I mean to say that this fight was needless. You started it; now you can stop it.”
Mr. Keedy had been lighting a cigar, and it was plain that he did not intend to venture out into the mêlée.
“Look here—I tell you to come along,” yelled the captain. “It’s your duty.”
“Not on your life. I’m no ship’s officer! I’m along as a diver, not as a prize-fighter.”
Captain Holstrom looked ugly enough just then to tackle me as a preface to his job forward, but after cursing a moment he followed the mate. The riot was increasing, and it was plain that he was needed in the field.
Keedy leaned back and scowled at me through his cigar smoke.
“I didn’t know I had picked a quitter,” he sneered. “We’re tackling a job that needs sand. You ain’t a tin horn, are you?”
I didn’t answer and the back of my neck began to itch; I suppose if I had had hair there like a dog’s, the hair would have bristled. That itching in the neck when you’re mad is a survival of the old days when men had lots of hair on ’em.
I started to walk out of the saloon. Miss Kama was sitting there, looking at us, and her presence rather complicated matters for a man who was getting madder all the time, as I was. The other officers had chased along on the trail of Captain Holstrom.