"I'll tell you, my innocent babe. If we start in to sink ships, commit murder and rob the cargoes without having the proper authority—that is Letters of Marque—we're not privateers at all; we're blooming, God-damn pirates, that's what we are," answered Skelt. "What's more, if any brainless swab here doesn't know what the punishment is for piracy, I'll have much pleasure in telling him."
"'Anging, ain't it?"
"Right first time; hanging it is."
"It ain't nothin' to do with us, any'ow," said one of the objectors. "We ain't responsible for what the skipper does."
"P'raps not, but if he orders you to shoot a man and you do it, you're a murderer and will be treated as such. You won't save your neck by telling the beak that you thought you were a privateer. No, my son, it'll be a hanging job, you can take your Davy on that. Maybe they'll put a photo of your handsome dial in the newspapers, but your gal will soon be looking for another jolly sailor-boy to sponge on, and mother'll lose her curly-headed darling."
There was a constrained silence for some moments, during which Skelt grinned at his audience sardonically. Despite the affected incredulity of his listeners, they were evidently beginning to feel nervous. To even the most ignorant among them, piracy was an ugly word, much akin to murder.
"S'posing what you say's right, what are we to do?" asked one of the hecklers at last.
"Ask the skipper to let us get out and walk," suggested someone amidst laughter.
"If any of you had brains a fraction of the size of your guts you wouldn't ask me a fool question like that," answered Skelt. "If a bloke came up and said 'I'm going to hang you in five minutes,' what would you do?"
"Knock 'is bloomin' light out," said a fireman.