"I'll put ye in irons, my fine gentleman," retorted the seaman.
"You are drunk," cried the young adventurer, drawing back his right hand as if to strike the great, scowling face that bent toward him across the table.
"Drunk, d'ye say! An' ye'd lift yer hand against the ship's master, would ye?" shouted Trowley. He lurched forward, and a knife flashed above the overturned bottle and glasses.
Ouenwa emitted a horrified scream, and hurled his paddle spear-wise into the cabin. The rounded point of the blade caught Trowley on the side of the head, and sent him crashing to the deck.
CHAPTER VI. THE FANGS OF THE WOLF SLAYER
When Trowley recovered consciousness, he was lying in his berth, with a bandage around his head. Kingswell looked in at him, smiling in a way that the old mariner was beginning to fear as well as hate.
"I hope you are feeling more amiable since your sleep," said Kingswell.
Trowley muttered a word or two of apology, damned the rum, and asked the time of day. His recollections of the argument in the cabin were hazy and fragmentary.