Slyne, busy replacing his shoes, thought that over, and sat up again with a sneering laugh.
"Don't forget, Dove," said he, "that, if you ever go back on me at a pinch, that will be the worst day's work you've ever done for yourself. I'm the one who's been sitting here while you've been on deck—and I don't know yet what you went for."
"You'll hear presently," the other informed him, quite unmoved by his threat. "And don't you forget, Slyne, that, if you ever go back on me at a pinch, I've another—box of cigars that I'm keeping for your benefit; I don't think Brasse will fail to look very carefully after it, either."
Slyne blanched a little, in spite of himself, and at that moment a stifled shout came from behind some closed door at the end of the alleyway outside the airless saloon. He moved, as if to rise, but sat still, rigid, his eyes dilated, as a blood-curdling, long-drawn cry reached his ears dully from the distance, and finally died to silence in a quavering agony.
Even Captain Dove was uncomfortably affected by it.
A shrill whistle made them both jump as the sight of a policeman just then might have done. It was the old man who first recovered his nerve.
"That's Da Costa, curse him!" he muttered, and darted a glance of contempt at Slyne as he crossed to the bridge speaking-tube.
"How the devil do I know!" he roared into that, after listening to what his new second mate had to say. "Yes, I heard it. You'd better send down and find out what it was."
He set the whistle into the tube again and turned to Slyne.
"Pull yourself together, you fool!" he said savagely. "This isn't the time to show the white feather. I wouldn't trust—" He stopped abruptly, hearing the sound of heavy feet in the passage as some of the watch on deck came tramping in, and Slyne, who had also heard that, pulled out his handkerchief to hide his tell-tale face.