"He is not—some men you can't trust when drunk—some you can."
"How'll I manage? How'll I make him understand? I can't blow the ship under him—kill all hands for a paltry thousand dollars," hissed James.
There was a long silence. Booker lit a cigar with a steady hand and puffed slowly. He was in no hurry. James gazed at him fixedly for a long time. He shifted uneasily in his chair.
"Suppose I refuse?" he said.
"You know the consequences," said Booker quite calmly.
"Try to hang me for deserting my ship, hey?" snarled the seaman. "Want me to do a dirty job for the insurance—won't even tell me how you want it done."
"It's up to you. You are a seaman—a captain. That's what I've been hiring you for. If I were a sailor I might give you directions. I'm not. Will you do it or not? Let's have it."
"Yes, I'll do it, you devil," snarled James. "I'll do it—somehow. Good day."
"Good day, Captain—Mr. James," said Booker without enthusiasm. He opened the door and the fat form of the disreputable seaman slouched out. A clerk met him at the door and handed him a note. It was permission to draw a hundred dollars for travelling expenses. James took it to the cashier and handed it in.