“Let go the anchor!” roared McGovern.
The Skipper subsided into his private state of dudgeon as the anchor-chain rolled out. Five-eight fathoms. It stopped its rattling roar and began to ooze gently out, indefinitely.
“Make it fast!” howled McGovern.
The order came as the Skipper was growing apoplectic. An Arab sailor hastened to obey, and the Kingston came to rest in the oily glassy waters while additional and hitherto unsuspected smells from the town floated toward her and enveloped her.
From the town, too, came boats. Boats of all sizes and degrees of unseaworthiness. They clustered about her and the Arab crew explained unintelligible things explicitly and the boatmen swarmed on board to argue the point.
Captain Grover’s beard waggled. He grew purple. A rumbling noise began deep down in his diaphragm. And McGovern said hastily, “I wouldna order them off, Skipper. After all, ye ken, they’ve bought the Kingston. But of course you know best.”
Captain Grover’s purple tint persisted, but the rumbling noise stopped. After a raging, anathematic glare about him, he withdrew his head violently into the wheelhouse. And McGovern sighed, mopped his head, and turned to duck down below again.
As he descended the ladder he saw unusual activity below. He looked in instant alert suspicion. And then with a roar of rage he jumped down the last five steps. His own private tool-kit was open and was being enthusiastically inspected by the engine room crew. As he plunged forward a man staggered into view with an especially large armful of McGovern’s personal possessions from his cabin. Other men were behind him, quarreling angrily over the loot. Somebody else was engaged in squabbling over McGovern’s watch and chain with still another man, and a last touch to McGovern’s wrath was given by the sight of his revolver in the hands of a member of the black gang.
“Scum o’ the earth,” roared McGovern, grabbing a slicebar as he rushed, “I’ll——”