In the crew’s quarters, up in the bows, two or three men were quarreling over a game of cards, or it sounded like that. They could be left to their own devices. The saloon was lighted, the door open. A husky voice was bawling to the steward.
Richard Cary had to stoop to enter the small saloon. At the table sat his chief officer, Bradley Duff, and a plump, flashy young man with kinky hair and a flattened nose. An elderly mulatto in a dirty apron just then emerged from the pantry with a tray.
The late supper was interrupted, but not rudely. “Big Dick” Cary intruded his soothing presence with the air of a man who disliked violence. He received no greetings, for the reason that the three men in the saloon had suddenly forgotten what speech was for. They were as dumb as three oysters.
The blustering Bradley Duff blew a long breath through his ragged mustache. The kinky-haired young man in the pink silk shirt showed the whites of his eyes and slid lower in his chair. He seemed to be ebbing under the table. The glasses on the steward’s tray jingled together. His feet were riveted to the floor.
The large, pleasant-featured visitor could not help smiling as he said:
“Good-evening, Mister Duff. I am Captain Cary, master of this ship.”
The spell was broken. The plump young man slid lower as he murmured, “Madre de Dios! Está El Tigre Amarillo!” The steward wrenched his feet from the floor. They would have retreated swiftly to the pantry, but Captain Cary crooked a finger at him. He obeyed and joined the others at the table.
Mr. Bradley Duff had not slid down in his chair. His mottled cheeks were puffed out. His pimpled nose was redder, if that were possible. He was a beefy, truculent figure, a man who had been valorous in his prime, before some hidden flaw had broken him. Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, he hoarsely burst out:
“Like hell you are the master of this ship, you big buckaroo! I know who you are—the guy that busted loose and fooled the town into thinking he was a bad hombre. I’m no kid to be scared by a bogeyman. You make me laugh. Master, my eye! You’ve gone clean bughouse. Wait till the owner comes off to-night. He’ll throw a fit. I am waiting for his pet skipper.”
“The owner is on board,” said Cary, “but he is to be left alone until I say so. He is a sick man. We shall get under way at four-thirty, Mr. Duff. What’s the word from the chief engineer?”