The companionway framed six weather-beaten, bearded faces. There was a grin on each, from 286 the first, which was clear to its smallest wrinkle in the candle-light, to those which were vanishing and reappearing in the shadows behind. Billy seemed to be incapable of word or action.
“Come to report, sir,” said the nearest wrecker. “We seed you was aground, young skipper, and we thought we’d help you ashore with the cargo.”
Billy rested his left hand on the head of a powder keg, which stood on end on the counter beside him. His right stole towards the candlestick. There was a light in his blue eyes––a glitter or a twinkle––which might have warned the wreckers, had they known him better.
“I order you ashore!” he said, slowly. “I order you all ashore. You’ve no right aboard this ship. If I had my gun–––”
“Sure, you left it on deck.”
“If I had my gun,” Billy pursued, “I’d have the right t’ shoot you down.”
The manner of the speech––the fierce intensity of it––impressed the wreckers. They perceived that the boy’s face had turned pale, that his eyes were flashing strangely. They were unused to such a depth of passion. It may be that they were reminded of a bear at bay. 287
“I believe he’d do it,” said one.
An uneasy quiet followed; and in that silence Billy heard the prow of another punt strike the ship. More footfalls came shuffling aft––other faces peered down the companionway. One man pushed his way through the group and made as if to come down the ladder.
“Stand back!” Billy cried.