The half-caste peaked and socketed his oar, and looked at the officer.
“I refuse, sir,” he said quietly.
“Then come aft here,” cried Frewen quickly, with hot anger in his tones.
“No, sir, I will not. I said I would neither lift iron nor steer a boat again,” was the dogged reply.
There was no time to lose. Giving the steer oar to the man pulling the “after-tub oar,” the officer sprang forward and picked up the harpoon just in time, Randall jumping aft smartly enough, and taking the tub man's oar. Ten seconds later Frewen had buried his harpoon up to the socket in the whale, and the line was humming as the boat tore through the water. Then, still keeping his place, he let the whole of one tub of line run out, and then hauled up on it and lanced and killed his fish quietly. Cheyne apparently took no notice, though his heart sank within him when Frewen came aft again, and looked at him with mingled anger and reproach.
Some one of the boat's crew talked of what had occurred, though Frewen said nothing; and that night Cheyne was placed in irons by Keller's orders. At the end of a week he was still manacled and almost starving, but he steadfastly refused to do boatsteerer's duty. Then the captain no longer placed any check on himself, and he swore that he would either make the half-caste yield or else kill him. And he did his best to keep his word.
Nearly a month passed, and then, at Frewen's suggestion, all the officers waited on the captain and begged him to release the unfortunate man; otherwise there was every prospect of the crew mutinying.
“Is he willing to turn to again?” he asked.
“Not as boatsteerer,” replied Frewen.
“Then he shall stay where he is,” was the savage retort.