Whatever humor there might have been in the ill-starred situation was destroyed for Madden by his friend's moral relapse. It was much as if some invalid, nursing a broken leg, should fall and break it over again.
Gaskin was the first man who came in reach of the wrathful American. Madden caught his arm, whirled him about.
"You ladle rum out to these hogs?" he blazed.
Gaskin revolved with dignity and considered his accuser. "You wouldn't think Hi'd do such a thing, sor!"
"Then how did they get it?" Leonard shook the fat arm sharply.
"In spite o' me, sor! In spite o' me!" defended the cook, shaking his fat jowls earnestly. "Hi rebooked 'em, sor. Says Hi, 'Gents, this is lootin', it is piratin', it is——'"
"You should have refused them a drop!"
"Refuse—Hi did refuse, sor! Hi did more. Hi blocked 'em! Hi—Hi fought hout, like a demon, sor! There were too many! Hoverpowered me, sor, they did! I was fightin' and blockin', fightin' and blockin', like a d-demon, sor, b-but—b-but——"
Here Gaskin's utterance grew thicker, his fat head bobbed, then he slithered down by the rail in the hot sunshine; his face stared skyward and stewed sweat in the terrific heat. Madden gave a grunt of disgust. Gaskin was fast asleep.
There was nothing to be done. The men were drunk and he would have to wait till they became sober before making an attempt to run the Vulcan. He stood a moment, staring disgustedly at his useless crew, then finally stooped and dragged Gaskin to the shady side of the superstructure. As he passed with his burden some of the men made clumsy tangle-footed efforts to salute.