“Nay, Matthew Turnby, you do but jest in keeping the thin Spanish sap in my veins so long waiting for an answer,” he said with a sneer and a smile. The sailor swallowed noisily, but said nothing.
“The drunken sot of a pirate must be taught not to cross thee, Matthew,” went on the Captain, and his smile had vanished, leaving only a weary expression on the lean features. “Lord! man, if thou wilt not choose, faith, I must for thee.”
“Surely, Capt’n—you jest—surely.”
The words came like a flood from the big man’s open mouth.
An expression of surprise spread over the Spaniard’s face. “I jest?” he said. “Nay, faith, good Matthew, I jest?” he repeated. “Lord, man, when didst thou get that into thy ass’s pate—nay, nay, of a certainty I do not jest—which wilt thou have?”
Mat Turnby’s face grew purple, but he did not speak; his tongue protruded slightly from his lips.
Black’erchief Dick looked at the weapons critically as they lay side by side in his hand.
“Ah,” he said at last, holding the pistol in his left hand. “This we see, Matthew, is discharged. I beg thy pardon, señor, for pressing a choice I could not give thee. As it is, you see, but the knife remains,” and he dropped the pistol into a capacious pocket.
Mat Turnby’s hand clutched at his throat and he stepped back a pace or two.
Black’erchief Dick followed him, the knife swinging lightly between his thumb and forefinger. Blueneck stood watching, his eyes fixed on the Spaniard in unholy fascination. Farther and farther back stepped the big sailor, Dick keeping always the same distance from him, until he reached the side of the boat. There he stayed, breathless with fear. Slowly the Spaniard came nearer and nearer to him, and the thin blue blade ceased to swing.