Boston plucked me by the sleeve. "Me and Jack are goin' to have a few words private," says he to the rest. "He's with us—no fear—a feller like Jack Shreve stands by his mates. Come on, Jack."
I went with him willingly. I was anxious to hear what he had to say "private." I was even more anxious to get away from the crowd for a few moments, and think out some scheme whereby I could avert the impending catastrophe.
Boston led me up on the foc'sle head, and we sat down upon an anchor stock.
"We ain't such fools as you think, Blackie and me," he commenced abruptly. "We ain't goin' to face guns with knives—not us. But guns to guns—well, that's different now, ain't it?"
"What do you mean?" I demanded. "Have you got a gun?"
In answer, he lifted my hand and placed it over his dungaree jacket, I felt something hard, of irregular shape, beneath the thin cloth, the outline of a revolver.
"It ain't the only one," he assured me. "Two brace we came on board with—and we weren't drunk, you bet. We hid them safe before them fellers aft went through the dunnage. And Cockney didn't find out about them, either. They don't know aft that we're heeled. The rest o' the gang ain't acquainted with the fact yet, either. We'll let them know when the time comes."
He paused, and looked at me inquiringly. "Well?" I asked.
"Well!" he echoed. "Well, just this—a gang that has guts enough to face shotguns with sheath-knives is a pretty tough gang, ain't it? And it'll be a lot tougher when it finds out it has four guns of its own, and plenty o' shells. And it kind of evens up the chances, doesn't it?"
I was thinking fast. All chance to keep the peace was gone, I realized.
Unless——