“Who can tell? That is as it may be. But it is always a privilege, even if one must live a little after being burnt.”
Through the silence between them, Mr. Travers' voice came plainly, saying with irritation:
“I've told you already that I do not want you. I've sent a messenger to the governor of the Straits. Don't be importunate.”
Then Lingard, standing with his back to them, growled out something which must have exasperated Mr. Travers, because his voice was pitched higher:
“You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you. Sir John, as it happens, is a personal friend of mine. He will send a cruiser—” and Lingard interrupted recklessly loud:
“As long as she does not get here for the next ten days, I don't care. Cruisers are scarce just now in the Straits; and to turn my back on you is no hanging matter anyhow. I would risk that, and more! Do you hear? And more!”
He stamped his foot heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.
“You will gain nothing by trying to frighten me,” he said. “I don't know who you are.”
Every eye in the yacht was wide open. The men, crowded upon each other, stared stupidly like a flock of sheep. Mr. Travers pulled out a handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. The face of the sailing-master who leaned against the main mast—as near as he dared to approach the gentry—was shining and crimson between white whiskers, like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.
D'Alcacer whispered: