"Where's that Dutch villain?" Ward was screaming, following up his question with a volley of oaths.
"Who?" asked the mate, "I've seen none up here; though there are some in the steerage."
Down to the steerage flew the gambler without waiting to reply, and bounding into the midst of a group of German emigrants seated there, quietly smoking their pipes, angrily demanded which of them it was who had been on the upper deck just now, abusing him, and calling him a cheat, and a man with a broken nose.
They heard him in silence, with a cool, phlegmatic indifference most exasperating to one in his present mood.
Drawing his revolver, "Speak!" he shouted, "tell me which one it was, or
I'll—I'll shoot every mother's son of you!"
His arms were suddenly pinioned from behind while a deep voice grunted, "You vill, vill you? I dinks not; you ish mine brisoner. Dere ish nopody here as did gall you names, and you vill put up dat leetle gun."
A man of giant size and herculean strength, had laid aside his pipe and slowly rising to his feet, seized the scoundrel in his powerful grasp.
"Let me go!" yelled Ward, making a desperate effort to free his arms.
"Ha, ha! man mit de proken nose, you ish vake up de wrong bassenger again," came mockingly from above. "It ish me as galls you von pig sheat; and I dells you it again."
"There, the villain's up on the deck now!" cried Ward, grinding his teeth in impotent rage. "Let go my arms I let go, I say, and I'll teach him a lesson."