"Well," returned Mr. Landers, "I don't shoot folks."
After supper the captain stuck his head out of the cabin gangway.
"Come down here, you," he said. I stepped into the cabin, now bright with lighted lamps. The captain glared at me savagely.
"You want to give me a bad name with Captain Shorey when he takes command, do you?" he shouted. "You want to make it appear I have been hard on my men, eh? You think you're a smart sea lawyer, but I'll teach you the bitterest lesson you ever learned. We are bound for the Arctic Ocean. There are no ships up there but whale ships, and we do as we please. I have been sailing to the Arctic for thirteen years as master and mate of whale ships and I know just how far I can go in dealing with a man without making myself liable to law. I am going to make it as rough for you as I know how to make it. I will put you over the jumps right. I will punish you to the limit. This ship is going to be a floating hell for you for the rest of the voyage. And when we get back to San Francisco you can prosecute me all you please."
He drew a key from his pocket and unlocked one manacle. It dropped from one wrist and dangled from the other.
"Boy," he said to the Kanaka cabin boy, who has been listening with open mouth and bulging eyes to this tirade, "get this man a cup of water and a biscuit."
I had had nothing to eat since breakfast, and I sat down at the cabin table and ate my one hardtack and drank my quart tin of water with a relish. After my meal, the captain fastened my handcuff again and jerked a little hatch out of the floor.
"Get down there," he said.