“Be careful,” he said. “They’re dangerous.”
“Dangerous? Them? I’ve seen their kind afore. Here, you!” turning to the three below. “What do you mean by this? Put down that knife, you lubber! Do you want to be put in irons? Over the side with you, you swabs! Git!”
He began descending the ladder. Whether the sailors were merely too surprised to resist, or because they recognized the authority of the deep sea in Captain Elisha’s voice and face is a question. At any rate, as he descended they backed away.
“Mutiny on board a ship of mine?” roared the captain. “What do you mean by it? Why, I’ll have you tied up and put on bread and water. Over the side with you! Mutiny on board of me! Lively! Tumble up there!”
With every order came a stride forward and a correspondingly backward movement on the part of the three. The performance would have been ridiculous if Pearson had not feared that it might become tragic. He was descending the steps to his new acquaintance’s aid, when there rose a chorus of shouts from the wharf.
“The cops! the cops! Look out!”
That was the finishing touch. The next moment the three “mutineers” were over the side and running as fast as their alcoholic condition would permit down the wharf.
“Well, by George!” exclaimed Pearson.
Captain Elisha seemed to be coming out of a dream. He stood still, drew his hand across his forehead, and then began to laugh.
“Well!” he stammered. “Well, I snum! I—I—Mr. Pearson, I wonder what on earth you must think of me. I declare the sight of that gang set me back about twenty years. They—they must have thought I was the new skipper! Did you hear me tell ’em they couldn’t mutiny aboard of me? Ho! ho! Well, I am an old idiot!”