“What’s in the room, then?” says Pomfrett, freeing himself from the Jew’s hold with his former action.
“Hush, speak lower. Bend down.” As Gamaliel whispered in his ear there came the loud noise of a pistol shot, a momentary silence, then renewed bellowings and hammerings.
“Stay here,” said Pomfrett to me, and ran from the room. The clamour ceased, and the Jew wiped his brow with the back of his shaking hand. All this passed totally unheeded by the gorging crew of released mariners; they scarce looked up from their victuals when, a few minutes after Pomfrett had quitted the room, Mr Dawkins entered it.
That robustious buccaneer came softly in and sat down heavily beside me. The frightened, furtive look had passed from Gamaliel’s face to his own; indeed, by some unexplained process, the two seemed to have changed places. Now that the worst, apparently, had come upon him, the Jew was settling into a stolid resignation, the indispensable attribute of his race, while Dawkins sat uneasily listening, his eyes upon the door.
“And I might ’a’ known it,” he said, presently, without shifting his glance. “I surely might ’a’ known it all along.” He bent a savage look on Gamaliel for a moment. “I’ll pay you for this, Hooky. Lord strike and blast me to ashes where I sit, but I’ll pay you for this.”
“Mother of Moshesh, how could I help it? You know better than that, Mr Dawkins,” said the Jew, sullenly.
“I know this,” says Dawkins, “that the minute Mr Murch sets foot inside this here door I’ll shoot you like a blessed dog, Hooky.”
The name of Murch struck me with a horrid shock of amazement. But the Jew was unmoved.
“You’d better let me go and stop him, then,” was all he said. Dawkins, unheeding, addressed himself to me, still keeping a watchful eye on the door while he talked.
“I reckon you’re surprised, Mr Winter, at what I said. And I was surprised, upstairs, and no mistake. Now I ain’t surprised at anything any more. Dawkins is ready, ay, and willing, to believe everything, like the man in the Bible. Now, here we sit, you and me and Hooky, and Mr Murch within a cable of us, very likely. He’s a-coming to supper, is Murch. Which there won’t be much of it left, seemingly.” Dawkins shot a glance upon the revelling seamen, under cover of whose increasing clatter and clamour his own talk went forward, unheard by any save the Jew and myself. “A nice little family party, ain’t it?” Mr Dawkins looked anything but cheerful at the prospect. “You rec’lect, I daresay, Mr Winter,” Dawkins went on, in a kind of despairing calm, “a—a person, calling himself—I should say herself—no, itself, dash me—Morgan Leroux? Well, it’s upstairs, Mr Winter. As sure as sunrise, Morgan Leroux was behind that there door I were knocking at so politeful, and he—she or it, curse me for a poor blind, but she’s like a lady to look at, now, at any rate—she up and fired through the door. But she missed her aim. Then Mr Pomfrett come up, and—well, it’s all right now, I reckon. As for poor old Dawkins, he wasn’t wanted no more. So he come down. And when Cap’n Murch comes aboard, why, look out for squalls.”