“What’s the matter?” he asked.
Pearson answered without turning his head.
“Drunken sailors,” he explained. “Part of the crew here. They’ve been uptown, got full, and come back to square a grudge they seem to have against the steward. I’m telling them they’d better give up and go ashore, if they know when they’re well off.”
The three fellows by the ladder’s foot were consulting together. On the wharf were half a dozen loungers, collected by the prospect of a row.
“If I can hold them off for a few minutes,” went on Pearson, “we’ll be all right. The wharf watchman has gone for the police. Here! drop it! What are you up to?”
One of the sailors had drawn a knife. The other two reached for their belts behind, evidently intending to follow suit. From the loafers on the wharf came shouts of encouragement.
“Do the dude up, Pedro! Give him what’s comin’ to him.”
The trio formed for a rush. The steward, with a shrill scream, fled to the cabin. Pearson did not move; he even smiled. The next moment he was pushed to one side, and Captain Elisha stood at the top of the steps.
“Here!” he said, sternly. “What’s all this?”
The three sailors, astonished at this unexpected addition to their enemies forces, hesitated. Pearson laid his hand on the captain’s arm.