But their traitorous desire is opposed by Striker. However otherwise debased, the ex-convict is true to the men who speak his own tongue.
He protests in strong determined language, and is backed by the Dutchman, Dane, and La Crosse, as also Tarry and Slush.
“Bah!” exclaims Padilla, seeing himself in the minority; “I was only jesting. Of course, I had no intention to abandon them. Ha, ha, ha!” he adds with a forced laugh, “we’d be the blackest of traitors to behave that way.”
Striker pays no heed to the hypocritical speech, but calls to his old chum and Harry Blew—alternately pronouncing their names.
He gets response, and soon after sees Davis above, clambering over the rail.
Blew is not far behind, but still does not appear. He is by the foot of the mainmast with a haulyard in his hands as though hoisting something aloft. The moon has become clouded, and it is too dark for any one to see what it is. Besides, there is no one observing him—no one could, the bulwarks being between.
“Hillo, there, Blew!” again hails Striker; “what be a-keepin’ ye? Hurry down! These Spanish chaps are threetnin’ to go off without ye.”
“Hang it!” exclaims the chief mate, now showing the side; “I hope that an’t true!”
“Certainly not!” exclaims Padilla; “nothing of the kind. We were only afraid you might delay too long, and be in danger of going down with the vessel.”
“Not much fear of that,” returns Blew, dropping into the boat, “It’ll be some time afore she sinks. Ye fixed the rudder for her to run out, didn’t ye?”