“Certain.”
“Do you mean to tell me that in three hours, or less, the ship may be a wreck?”
“Will be,” said Tollemache. “Have a cigar,” and he passed a well-filled case to his companion.
The American was beginning to take the silent one’s measure. He bit off the end of a cigar and lit it.
“What’s at the back of your head?” he asked coolly. The other looked towards the Chileans.
“Those chaps are rotters,” he said.
“You think they will cut up rough? What can they do? We must all sink or swim together.”
“Yes; but there are the women, you know. They must be looked after. You can count on me. Tell the chief steward—and the padri.”
Gray felt that here was a man after his own heart, the native-born American having a rough-and-ready way of classifying nationalities when the last test of manhood is applied by a shipwreck, or a fire.
“Got a gun?” he inquired.