“Let me go among them, sir.”
“No; it is my duty, and Andrew Weber is not the man to shirk it.”
Holding up his hand, and putting down the revolver he had in his grasp, he walked quietly towards the end of the raft where the men were gathered together.
He saw at once what he had not known before, namely, that through some negligence they had got at the cases of spirit, and had been drinking heavily, and he felt all hope was gone. Had they been sober an appeal to their better sense might have availed—as it was he knew it to be useless; still there was no other chance left.
“My lads, we’ve been too long together to be murdering each other this way. I’ve never done you wrong. Tell me what ye want,” he said.
“We want the gold, you old porpoise, and we’ll have it; and we want the raft, and we will have that, too,” was the reply.
“I don’t care about the gold, Phillips,” replied the old seaman. “It’s all that remains to me, and I had hoped to fit out another craft with it; but the moan’s soon made. Take it.”
“Too late! Too late, damn ye!” howled the drunken seaman. “Back to your quarter-deck, or take the consequences. I say, aft there, look out for squalls!”
“Phillips, do you remember when I took you on board at Saint Helena? You were half starved, and in rags. If I go back, we will fight it out to the last man. All you can get is the gold, and I say ye may have it.”
“Your quarter-deck speeches won’t do here, my hearty. Back to your people, I say!” The man’s eyes were blazing with drink and fury.