"Pipe away the cutter," ordered Captain Brookes. "Mr. Palmer, you will please take charge—you know your orders, I presume?"
"Yes, sir," replied the lieutenant.
As the cutter ranged alongside the tramp's rusty sides her captain, a tall, broad-shouldered, heavily bearded Slav, began abusing the intruders, cursing them in a medley of all the seafaring epithets of Europe.
"Belay there!" exclaimed Palmer. "Don't worry, old fellow! All we want is some oil."
"Then you'll haf to want," replied the irate skipper, who spoke English with tolerable fluency.
"We mean to pay you a fair rate."
"No, no—I will not sell."
"Then we must make you."
"Pirate, eh?" sneered the Russian. "Me report you, an' you'll go so," making a rapid circle with his thumb and finishing with an upward jerk. "What's the name of your sheep?"
"The Olive Branch—isn't that good enough for you?" retorted Palmer, beginning to lose his temper.