“I was just telling Mrs. Travers I didn't trust you—not altogether. . . .”
“I know all about it,” interrupted Lingard, contemptuously. “You carry a blamed pistol in your pocket to blow my brains out—don't you? What's that to me? I am thinking of the brig. I think I know your sort. You will do.”
“Well, perhaps I might,” mumbled Carter, modestly.
“Don't be rash,” said Lingard, anxiously. “If you've got to fight use your head as well as your hands. If there's a breeze fight under way. If they should try to board in a calm, trust to the small arms to hold them off. Keep your head and—” He looked intensely into Carter's eyes; his lips worked without a sound as though he had been suddenly struck dumb. “Don't think about me. What's that to you who I am? Think of the ship,” he burst out. “Don't let her go!—Don't let her go!” The passion in his voice impressed his hearers who for a time preserved a profound silence.
“All right,” said Carter at last. “I will stick to your brig as though she were my own; but I would like to see clear through all this. Look here—you are going off somewhere? Alone, you said?”
“Yes. Alone.”
“Very well. Mind, then, that you don't come back with a crowd of those brown friends of yours—or by the Heavens above us I won't let you come within hail of your own ship. Am I to keep this key?”
“Captain Lingard,” said Mrs. Travers suddenly. “Would it not be better to tell him everything?”
“Tell him everything?” repeated Lingard. “Everything! Yesterday it might have been done. Only yesterday! Yesterday, did I say? Only six hours ago—only six hours ago I had something to tell. You heard it. And now it's gone. Tell him! There's nothing to tell any more.” He remained for a time with bowed head, while before him Mrs. Travers, who had begun a gesture of protest, dropped her arms suddenly. In a moment he looked up again.
“Keep the key,” he said, calmly, “and when the time comes step forward and take charge. I am satisfied.”