“They’re determined, are they?”
“To the death—they all say so.”
“In that case,” mutters Gomez, after a moment or two spent in reflection, “I suppose we’ll have to yield to their demands. I see no help for it. Go straight back, and say something to pacify them. Try to put things off, till we have time to consider. Maldita! this is an unexpected difficulty—ugly as sin itself!”
Padilla is about to return to his discontented shipmates on the forward-deck; but is saved the journey, seeing them come aft. Nor do they hesitate to invade the sacred precincts of the quarter; for they have no fear of being forbidden. There they pause for a few seconds, and then continue on.
Soon they mount to the poop-deck, and cluster around the wheel; the whole crew now present—mates as men—all save the captain and cook. And all take part in the colloquy that succeeds, either in speech or by gesture.
The debate is short, and the question in dispute soon decided. Harry Blew and Jack Striker are the chief spokesmen; and both talk determinedly; the others, with interests identical, backing them up by gestures, and exclamations of encouragement.
“Shipmates!” says the first officer, “this thing we’re all after should be equally divided between us.”
“Must be,” adds Striker, with an oath. “Share and share alike. That’s the only fair way. An’ the only one we’ll gie in to.”
“Stick to that, Striker!” cries Davis: “we’ll stand by ye.”
“Pe gar! certainement,” endorses the Frenchman, “Vat for no? Sacré bleu! ve vill. I am for les droits de matelot—le vrai chose democratique. Vive le fair play!”