“Here, take it back, I say,” and he threw the belt and purse upon the floor; “take back your damned money. But for the gold I should be safe in the King Harry, and not here to drown like a rat.”
Jeffray looked at Bess and then at the unnerved sot, who was leaning against the panelling by the door. A wave struck the ship full on the poop, breaking the glass in the windows, the black water pouring in upon the floor. The lamp flared and spluttered with the wind and spray, and the narrow cabin seemed full of the gurgling and plashing of the sea.
Jeffray sprang forward and laid his hand on the captain’s shoulder.
“Come, man, are you going to drown without a fight?”
The fellow shuddered, and shook the blood out of his eyes.
“It ben’t any use,” he said, sullenly; “it ben’t any use.”
“By God, man, where’s the English grit in you? Why aren’t the pumps working? We can’t be far from the French coast now.”
Captain George shook off Jeffray’s hand.
“Let be,” he said, savagely, “the men have got the liquor out. They’re sick of pumping, I tell ye, and they’re going down drunk, bad blood to ’em!”
Jeffray stood back against the table and looked at the long-limbed sloven with a flash of scorn. The man had no courage left in him; he was sulky and sodden with his death grapple with the sea. Jeffray turned to the bunk where Bess was lying, took out his pistols from a valise, and levelled one of them calmly at the captain’s head.