CHAPTER XIII
THE MAN'S MAN'S MAN
The sides of the Blackbirder were lined with sallow, scowling faces, as villainous a crew as ever gathered aboard one disreputable ship since time began.
They took in all the points of the trim little craft that nosed quietly up within speaking distance; the British flag, to which they were by nature antipathetic; the long brown gun forward, with its black mouth pointing plumb for every shifty eye of them; the glancing barrels of the Winchesters, and the steady determination of the men who carried them; the covert menace of the whole silent display. Muttered blasphemies rolled along the line of yellow faces, and the rumble of them was heard aboard the Torch.
"What you want?" shouted a burly figure, standing aft behind the deckhouse.
"Your cargo," replied Captain Cathie, patting the breach of his big gun affectionately, and the objurgations aboard the enemy broke out afresh.
"What you mean?"
"You'd better come aboard here and we'll explain."
"You better fetch me."