I believe the thing had been discussed before I went up, for McNamara spoke up from the wheel.
“We’ll manage that somehow or other, Leslie,” he said. “We want somebody to take charge, somebody with a head, that’s all. And since you ain’t, in a manner of speaking, been one of us, nobody’s feelings can’t be hurt. Ain’t that it, boys?”
“That, and a matter of brains,” said Burns.
“But Singleton?” I glanced aft.
“Singleton is going in irons,” was the reply I got.
The light was stronger now, and I could see their faces. It was clear that the crew, or a majority of the crew, believed him guilty, and that, as far as Singleton was concerned, my authority did not exist.
“All right,” I said. “I’ll do the best I can. First of all, I want every man to give up his weapons. Burns!”
“Aye, aye.”
“Go over each man. Leave them their pocket-knives; take everything else.”
The men lined up. The situation was tense, horrible, so that the miscellaneous articles from their pockets—knives, keys, plugs of chewing tobacco, and here and there, among the foreign ones, small combs for beard and mustache unexpectedly brought to light, caused a smile of pure reaction. Two revolvers from Oleson and McNamara and one nicked razor from Adams completed the list of weapons we found. The crew submitted willingly. They seemed relieved to have some one to direct them, and the alacrity with which they obeyed my orders showed how they were suffering under the strain of inaction.