“He say, sar,” translated the little Persian almost tearfully, “that you are Christian dogs and he cut your throats presently. But if you help run the ship, he let you live. If you are good pirates, he will turn you free and give you shares in loot taken.”
McGovern narrowed his eyes. He thought he saw a chance to grab a knife, if he sprang quickly enough.
“Ye can say,” he observed pleasantly, “that we’ll see him in the lowest of the seven hells he believes in before we’ll turn pirate. I’m speaking for the Skipper an’ myself.”
The Skipper rumbled as the little Persian turned to translate. He rumbled more loudly until the small man stopped. And he glared at McGovern and waggled his beard speechlessly.
“What d’ye mean, sir?” demanded McGovern. “Aren’t ye with me?”
The Skipper growled negatively. One eye was closed rakishly. His lip was split. His expression was baleful and the perfection of concentrated venom. But he growled at McGovern instead of the Sheik Abu Nakhl.
“Ye mean ye’ll take on this damned cutthroat an’ his damned piracy before ye’ll die like a white man should?” demanded McGovern wrathfully.
The Skipper growled again. But it was unquestionably an affirmative.
“All right, then,” said McGovern savagely, “Tell the old pirate—” he addressed the mournful Persian—“tell him to cut my throat only. He’s got a skipper, but I’m damned if he’s got an engineer.”