“Then 'tis yer share for better men than yerself,” Sullivan sneered. “Go on with yer duty, cook.”
“'Tis not me duty, the killin' of b'ys,” Gorman protested irresolutely.
“If yez don't make mate for us, we'll be makin' mate of yerself,” Behane threatened. “Somebody must die, an' as well you as another.”
Johnny Sheehan began to cry. O'Brien listened anxiously. His face was pale. His lips trembled, and at times his whole body shook.
“I signed on as cook,” Gorman enounced. “An' cook I wud if galley there was. But I'll not lay me hand to murder. 'Tis not in the articles. I'm the cook—”
“An' cook ye'll be for wan minute more only,” Sullivan said grimly, at the same moment gripping the cook's head from behind and bending it back till the windpipe and jugular were stretched taut. “Where's yer knife, Mike? Pass it along.”
At the touch of the steel, Gorman whimpered.
“I'll do ut, if yez'll hold the b'y.”
The pitiable condition of the cook seemed in some fashion to nerve up O'Brien.
“It's all right, Gorman,” he said. “Go on with ut. 'Tis meself knows yer not wantin' to do ut. It's all right, sir”—this to the captain, who had laid a hand heavily on his arm. “Ye won't have to hold me, sir. I'll stand still.”