"We're actin' generous and open to you," he began. "We're offerin' you food an' water—all you want—in exchange for White Henshaw. He sold his soul to hell long ago, an' we've come to claim payment. It's overdue, that's what it is!"
"Aye, aye!" came a chorus of yells from the sailors. "White Henshaw's overdue."
"Look at this here water," went on Hovey, with a tempting wave of his hand. "Why not take this up an' help yourselves—after you've given us Henshaw?"
Sloan crowded in between Harrigan and McTee; his voice was a slavering murmur: "For pity's sake, boys, what we going to do?"
Harrigan and the big Scot exchanged glances. Faintly and slowly they smiled. There was a profound mutual understanding in that smile.
"I'm dying," went on Sloan eagerly and still in that slavering voice. "I'm burnin' up inside. For God's sake let 'em take him and finish him off!"
And always as he spoke his quick eyes went back and forth from face to face. They had neither eye nor voice for him. They turned their attention back to Hovey, who now spoke again hastily.
"But if you don't give us Henshaw, we'll take him, anyway. In one more day—or maybe two at the most—we'll come an' get you—understand? An' what we'll do to you when we get you will be this!"
He gestured over his shoulder. Eric Borgson was being led out on the deck by some of the crew.
"Look him over, Cap'n McTee. He's a big man, an' we're goin' to kill him by inches. So we're goin' to finish Van Roos—the same way. Speak out, lads; d'you want to die like these two are goin' to die, or will you turn over Henshaw—who needs killin'?"