They started to reach for O'Brien, but he backed away.
“I'll be the death iv yez!” he screamed. “Take yer hands off iv me, Sullivan! I'll come back! I'll haunt yez! Wakin' or slapin', I'll haunt yez till you die!”
“'Tis disgraceful!” yelled Behane. “If the short stick'd ben mine, I'd a-let me mates cut the head off iv me an' died happy.”
Sullivan leaped in and caught the unhappy lad by the hair. The rest of the men followed, O'Brien kicked and struggled, snarling and snapping at the hands that clutched him from every side. Little Johnny Sheehan broke out into wild screaming, but the men took no notice of him. O'Brien was bent backward to the deck, the tureen cover under his neck. Gorman was shoved forward. Some one had thrust a large sheath-knife into his hand.
“Do yer duty! Do yer duty!” the men cried.
The cook bent over, but he caught the boy's eyes and faltered.
“If ye don't, I'll kill ye with me own hands,” Behane shouted.
From every side a torrent of abuse and threats poured in upon the cook. Still he hung back.
“Maybe there'll be more blood in his veins than O'Brien's,” Sullivan suggested significantly.
Behane caught Gorman by the hair and twisted his head back, while Sullivan attempted to take possession of the sheath-knife. But Gorman clung to it desperately.