“You mean . . . ?” I queried.
“Whatever you want to think I mean,” the twisted wretch grinned malevolently into my face.
Charles Davis, when I peeped into his iron room, was exuberant.
“A pretty tale for the court in Seattle,” he exulted. “It’ll only make my case that much stronger. And wait till the reporters get hold of it! The hell-ship Elsinore! They’ll have pretty pickin’s!”
“I haven’t seen any hell-ship,” I said coldly.
“You’ve seen my treatment, ain’t you?” he retorted. “You’ve seen the hell I’ve got, ain’t you?”
“I know you for a cold-blooded murderer,” I answered.
“The court will determine that, sir. All you’ll have to do is to testify to facts.”
“I’ll testify that had I been in the mate’s place I’d have hanged you for murder.”
His eyes positively sparkled.