The skipper was below when the first mate
brought down the news and a very pale face as well.
"Tell the men to muster!"
So soon as the mate's back was turned, John Anderson took a revolver
from a locker and charged it; then, ascending the companion-ladder,
he walked to the break of the poop, with his hands buried in the
pockets of a pea-jacket. Down below him were the men, lolling
about in a sullen crowd on the weather side of the quarter-deck.
They were thirty or forty in number, and were a vicious-looking
set.
"Now then, my men! Half an hour ago we were steering due northeast.
Who was it dared to lay the ship's nose the other way?"
The burly boatswain swung his way out of the crowd, planted his foot
on the first step of the poop-ladder, and stared up at the captain.
"I did, and be damned to you!" roared he. There was a loud report.
The boatswain dropped, shot in the leg. And the crew shivered under
a gleaming eye and a gleaming weapon.
"All hands 'bout ship!" cried the master. The wounded boatswain,
raising himself for a moment on one hand, piped faintly, and fell
back unconscious. But the men were already at their stations, and
in five minutes more the Chrysolite was heading northeast again.
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