“And that,” said Cray to himself, as he took the message to the captain of the Cora, “that’ll hold him for a while. This ship is jammed full of strong men.”
“So you can’t find him, the thief,” Cray jeered.
There was no deference in his tone, no respect. Here he sat in the Old Man’s cabin and yarned away as if such a thing as discipline had ceased to exist.
“The thief? He’s been a murderer for two days.” Old Bain scowled at him. “You have me nigh crazy. First we rip up that little rat’s cabin—”
“That was you; I just hinted—” Cray began.
“Hinted like you did when that message came about lookin’ for a strong man who could kill barehanded!”
“A strong man; you’ve found several,” Cray retorted. “Was it me said it might be one of those two sailors? Oh, yes. I admit I didn’t contradict you. I’ll say I let you have your way, do your own crude sleuthing, searching that forecastle. Don’t you know that sailormen are a neat lot, even such scum as this? They know this moment that you have been prodding about. And now you say—”
“You put things into my mind, damn you!” The Old Man glowered at him. “I thinks things, and says things, and there ain’t no reason to them when said and thought. They ain’t my thoughts; they ain’t my actions, an’—”
“Mine, of course, hey? I do it all? Mebbe I did this. This came today.” Cray shoved a sheet of paper at him. The Old Man ran his eye over a jumble of code, then reached for his book, translated.
“You know what it is?” He lifted his head and stared at Cray. “You know—”