Margaret, quick to save Olivia from something which he thought might annoy her, made a neat parry. “Oh, don’t say that, Stukeley. Come on deck for a blow; then we’ll have a glass of punch apiece.”
“Come on,” said Perrin, attempting, with an ill grace, the manner of a jovial schoolboy. “Come on, my son. Catch hold of his other arm, Charles.”
As he seized Stukeley’s arm to give him a heave, Stukeley poked him in the wind, and tripped him as he stepped backward. “What’re you sitting down for?” he said, with a rough laugh.
Perrin was up in a second. He seized a heavy decanter, and hove it into Stukeley’s face. Stukeley in guarding the blow received a sharp crack upon the elbow. Margaret and Cammock pulled Perrin aside, under a heavy fire of curses.
“What d’ye mean by losing your temper? Hey?” said Stukeley.
Margaret drew Perrin out of the cabin. “Good night, Stukeley,” he said as he passed the door.
He left Cammock standing by his chair, looking into Stukeley’s face. There was a pause for a moment.
Then Stukeley began with, “That damned old woman nearly broke my elbow. If he’s a friend of yours——”
“He is,” said Cammock.
“Oh, so you’re another of them. Well. Lord. You make a queer crew. Do you know that?”