“Is it rum you want, lady?” he said as steadily as he could, the blade pricking deeper as the words moved the muscle of his throat.
“It is, hell-rat, it is.” Pet Salt bent nearer. “And no spying dog shall stop me from getting it. Ye waited out here till you were too stiff to move, did you? Ah, you blue-livered pike, the devil looks after his own.”
“Then I’m the man to get it for thee. I’m the mate of the Coldlight.”
Blueneck had just time to get out the words or she would have killed him.
“How do I know you be not?” she said shrewdly, though visibly shaken at his words, as she withdrew the knife.
“I swear,” began the sailor.
Pet Salt stopped him.
“Swear!” she screamed. “What’s a seaman’s oath to me?”
“Look at my garments,” said the anxious Blueneck. “Are they those of a common man or one befitting my station?”
Pet, like many other women before and since, was moved at the sight of the bright colours and good stuffs.