“There’s no bag here.” Her hand was behind her, gripping the belaying pin. “No bag at all unless you call that thing a bag.” She pointed to a canvas duffel bag that hung in the corner. “That’s mine. You can’t have it. You can’t have anything in this cabin. You can’t even touch anything or anybody, so you better get out.”
“So!” The man’s word was more like a hiss than a real expression of the word. At the same time his teeth were so uncovered that one might count them.
“So!” He advanced another step.
There came a faint click. Something bright gleamed in his right hand. A scream came to Florence’s lips, but she did not utter it; she only sat and stared.
“Yes,” said Meg in an even tone, while the red mounted to the roots of her hair. “We get your kind on the ships too. We get all kinds.”
Then, like a tiger in the jungle, she leaped forward. There followed a resounding thwack; a heavy knife went jangling to the floor. The stranger’s usually dark face turned a sickly white as, gripping a bruised wrist, he backed out of the room.
Stepping to the door Meg closed it, but did not bother to lock it.
Stooping, she picked up the knife and examined it carefully.
“That,” she said in a matter of fact tone, “is a good knife, much better than the one I use for slicing bacon. I shall keep it.
“See,” she said, holding it close to Florence, “it has a six-inch blade that locks when you open it. That’s what made it click.”