The Spaniard’s eyelids flickered and his smile broadened as he ordered more rum, planking down a jacobus in payment.
The time went on, and Gilbot and his customers grew more and more lively; still Anny avoided the Spaniard, and still he sat on the table steadily drinking rum.
Suddenly in the middle of a song Dick looked at the clock, and then rising to his feet shouted:
“Get aboard, dogs!”
The singing died away immediately and all eyes were turned on the clock. The hands pointed to 8.15.
Then a murmur rose among the crew and one bolder than the rest said something about orders being a quarter to nine.
Dick sprang to his feet and his hand played round the hilt of his knife.
“A mutiny?” he asked softly.
Instantly there was a shuffle toward the door and they filed out one by one, and Gilbot, his fuddled brain just realizing that the merriment had suddenly died down, began to pipe cheerfully:
“Oh, no one remembers poor Will
Who stuck by hish mate at the mill.”