"Quite a pleasant welcome home," he said ironically, his cold eyes fixed on a face that looked as if it might have been kicked by a healthy mule. "Eh, Trelawney?"
The Cornishman glared at him, and turned away with a low, savage oath.
"Are you hurt, Mr. Macdonald?" asked the captain.
"Hurt! Not at all, Captain. I cut myself while I was shaving this morning—just a scratch," was the ironic answer.
"There's been some dirty work going on. I'll see the men are punished, sir."
"Forget it, Captain. I'll attend to that little matter." His jaunty, almost insolent glance made the half-circle again. "Sorry you were too late for the party, gentlemen,—most of you. I see three or four of you who were 'among those present.' It was a strictly exclusive affair. And now, if you don't mind, I'll say good-night."
He turned on his heel, went up the stairway to the deck above, and disappeared into his stateroom.
The rescued miner, propped against the cabin wall where he had been placed, broke into sudden excited protest. "Ach! He tried to drown me. Mein head—he hold it under the water."
"Ain't that just like a Swede?" retorted the mate in disgust. "Mac saves his life. Then the roughneck kicks because he got a belly full of Yukon. Sure Mac soused him some. Why shouldn't he?"