“As you like,” said Lingard. “There's a rain squall coming.”
“I am in charge and will get wet along of my chaps. Give us a good long line, Captain.”
“It's done already,” said Lingard. “You seem a sensible sailorman and can see that it would be useless to try and give me the slip.”
“For a man so ready to shoot, you seem very trustful,” drawled Carter. “If I cut adrift in a squall, I stand a pretty fair chance not to see you again.”
“You just try,” said Lingard, drily. “I have eyes in this brig, young man, that will see your boat when you couldn't see the ship. You are of the kind I like, but if you monkey with me I will find you—and when I find you I will run you down as surely as I stand here.”
Carter slapped his thigh and his eyes twinkled.
“By the Lord Harry!” he cried. “If it wasn't for the men with me, I would try for sport. You are so cocksure about the lot you can do, Captain. You would aggravate a saint into open mutiny.”
His easy good humour had returned; but after a short burst of laughter, he became serious.
“Never fear,” he said, “I won't slip away. If there is to be any throat-cutting—as you seem to hint—mine will be there, too, I promise you, and. . . .”
He stretched his arms out, glanced at them, shook them a little.