“P’raps we may even be able to bag the mutineers themselves,” said the shipkeeper, “to shut ’em all up—the pow-wows in the forecastle, and Lark in the cabin. It’s wonderful—parfectly wonderful,” he added, thoughtfully, “how one idee leads to another. Them that is given to reflection, and the Stumps were always famous for that, propagates idees—fairly breeds ’em—one from another!”
“Hush!” whispered Marline. The sound of footsteps approaching the hatch was heard.
“It’s him—it’s that rascally Portuguese,” muttered the shipkeeper. “I’d know that walk of his from a thousand, lad. It’s peculiar—something like the tramp of a mule, and them that walks so ain’t to be trusted. Now the walk of the Stumps in every generation has been like that of a duck—a sort of waddle, and them that moves in that way generally takes to the water.”
The noise of the crow-bar—by means of which the hatch had been secured—was heard, as the implement was removed, and the next moment, just as Stump drew back, the trap was pulled aside from the opening, into which a face—the owner of which had stooped upon his knees—was thrust. Without waiting to take a survey of it, the shipkeeper seized the intruder by the hair of the head and pulled him head foremost into the run. But, before he had quite accomplished this feat, and yet when it was too late to draw back, he had seen the face clearly enough to recognize the harsh and decided lineaments of Tom Lark, which were different in every respect from those of the steward.
“Ay, ay, that was a mistake, sure enough!” cried Stump, scrambling quickly through the opening, as soon as the uplifted legs of the prostrate man beneath had been removed from it, “such a mistake as I never made before in my life, and as prudence is the better part of valor, I think I am parfectly justified in getting out of the run!”
He lifted his feet clear of the aperture just in time to escape the hand of the mutineer as the latter, who had by this time risen from his uncomfortable posture, made a furious attempt to clutch the bottoms of his pants.
“You wretched imp of Satan!” roared Lark, in a voice of thunder, as the other eluded his grasp, “you shall suffer for this trick!”
And he thrust a hand into the side-pocket of his Guernsey, to procure his pistol.
Stump saw the movement, and quickly seizing the crow-bar lying at his feet, he dealt the mutineer such a heavy blow upon his head—which projected at least eighteen inches above the combings of the hatch—that he dropped senseless into the run.
“It was all done in self defense!” cried the shipkeeper, as he leaped back into the hold. “Ay, ay—that it was, sure enough. But, bad as the man is—and he’s a parfect shark—it cost me something to give him that blow, seeing as I’m not in the habit of indulging myself in that way. I hope I haven’t committed murder—I hope he isn’t dead!”