Jim saw her and tried to make friends.
“Keetie, keetie,—nice leetle keetie,” said he, trying to stroke the brute on the head. But long confinement had told on Maria’s liver, and she reached out and drew several long, bloody lines on the sailor’s hand.
“Ye infernal shnake!” cried Jim; and he aimed a blow at the animal that would have knocked it clear across the equator had it not jumped nimbly to one side. His hand brought up against the galley with a loud bang.
“Let that cat alone. What d’ ye mean by trying to spoil a dumb brute’s temper?” roared the voice of Tautline, and his form came lurching down the weather gangway.
“Don’t strike me!” cried Jim, as they closed.
The belaying-pin in Tautline’s hand came down with a sickening crack on the sailor’s skull.
“Stop!” he cried again.
But Tautline was carried away by his passion and they went to the deck together.
It was all over in a moment. Tautline lay gasping in a red pool and Jim sat up, sheath-knife in hand, staring about him in a dazed manner. Then the captain and mate rushed up.
“Handcuff him! Put him in double irons!” cried the skipper, stretching Jim with a heavy blow.