All turned and beheld Foxey Jack Quinn standing near at hand, a leer on his wide mouth and in his pale eyes, and his nunney-bag on his shoulder. His skinnywoppers (high-legged moccasins of sealskin, hair-side inward) were glistening with moisture of melted snow, and his face was red from the rasp of raw wind. He looked as if he had slept in his clothes—which was, undoubtedly, the case. He glared straight at the skipper with a dancing flame of devilment in his eyes.
"What ye bin all a-doin' now for to make extry work for yerselves?" he asked.
There followed a brief silence, and then Black Dennis Nolan spoke quietly.
"Why bain't ye over to Squid Beach, standin' yer trick at look-out?" he inquired.
Foxey Jack's answer was a harsh, jeering laugh, and words to the effect that life was too short to spend five days of it lonely and starving with cold, in a hut not fit for a pig.
"Ye kin do what ye likes, yerself—ye an' them as be fools like yerself; but Jack Quinn bain't a-goin' to lend a hand a yer foolishness, Denny Nolan," he concluded.
"Turn round an' git back to yer post wid ye," said the skipper.
"Who be ye, an' what be ye, to give that word to me?"
"Ye knows who I be. Turn round an' git!"
"To hell wid ye! I turns round for no man!"