“Mind your helm!” roared Bunks, savagely. “D’ye want to send us to the bottom?”
The man sprang to the helm, and accompanied his remark with several fierce oaths, which need not be repeated, but which had the effect of rousing Jager’s anger to such a pitch, that he jumped up and hit the sailor a heavy blow on the face.
“I’ll stop your swearin’, I will,” he cried, preparing to repeat the blow, but the man stepped aside and walked forward, leaving his commander alone on the quarter-deck.
Bunks, who was a small but active man, was a favourite with the other two men who constituted the crew of the “Butterfly,” and both of whom were strong-limbed fellows. Their anger at seeing him treated thus savagely knew no bounds. They had long been at deadly feud with Jager. One of them, especially (a tall, dark, big-whiskered man named Job), had more than once said to his comrades that he would be the death of the skipper yet. Bunks usually shook his head when he heard these threats, and said, “It wouldn’t pay, unless he wanted to dance a hornpipe on nothing,” which was a delicate reference to being hung.
When the two men saw Bunks come forward with blood streaming from his mouth, they looked at each other and swore a tremendous oath.
“Will ye lend a hand, Jim?” sputtered Job between his clenched teeth.
Jim nodded.
“No, no,” cried Bunks, interposing, but the two men dashed him aside and rushed aft.
Their purpose, whatever it might have been, was arrested for a moment by Bunks suddenly shouting at the top of his lungs—
“Light on the starboard bow!”