“Ain’t you goin’ to meet your man?” bawled the trader.
“What man, you nigger-thief?” growled Howard.
“I’ll settle with you afterward,” said the trader, coming close to him. “You better attend to one quarrel at a time. Are you goin’ to fight or not? You know the man well enough, the officer you insulted yesterday.”
“Where is he?” growled the old villain.
“On the beach, waitin’ for you. Are ye blind?”
“That’ll do the anchor. Get the small boat ready,” said he to the mate. “I reckon we’ll wait a bit and see what’s up ashore.”
In a moment after, he had disappeared down the companion. Howard came stiffly on deck again, buckling on a cutlass. His face expressed nothing, and, as he went toward the gangway, he called for his steward to bring him a glass of grog. The effect of this was instantaneous.
He limbered up, and, as Holmberg, Bill, and myself brought the boat to the steps, he was pacing fore and aft, cursing at our delay.
“I’ll have my breakfast when I come back,” he growled to Watkins. “No fear, I’ll take the stiffness out of somebody.”
Then he climbed down the side ladder and sprang into the boat, followed by Yankee Dan.