Part 43 (1/2)
”One of your pa.s.sengers--Emerson. Heave to. You're pa.s.sing us.”
”That's b.l.o.o.d.y hard luck, Mr. Emerson; I can't help myself,” the Captain declared. But again Boyd blocked him as he started for the telegraph.
”I won't stand it, sir. It's a conspiracy to ruin me.”
”But, my dear young man--”
”Don't touch that instrument!”
From the launch came cries of growing vehemence, and a startled murmur of voices rose from somewhere in the darkness of the deck beneath.
”Stand aside,” Peasley ordered, gruffly; but the other held his ground, saying, quietly:
”I warn you. I am desperate.”
”Shall I stop her, sir?” the quartermaster asked from the shadows of the wheel-house.
”No!” Emerson commanded, sharply, and in the glow from the binnacle-light they saw he had drawn his revolver, while on the instant up from the void beneath heaved the ma.s.sive figure of Big George Balt, a behemoth, more colossal and threatening than ever in the dim light. Rumbling curses as he came, he leaped up the pilot-house steps, wrenched open the door, and with one sweep of his hairy paw flung the helmsman from his post, panting,
”Keep her going, Cap', or I'll run them down!”
”We stood by you, old man,” Emerson urged; ”you stand by us. They can't make you stop. They can't come aboard.”
The launch was abreast of them now, and skimming along so close that one might have tossed a biscuit aboard of her. For an instant Captain Peasley hesitated; then Emerson saw the ends of his bristly mustache rise above an expansive grin as he winked portentously. But his voice was convincingly loud and wrathful as he replied:
”What do you mean, sir? I'll have my blooming s.h.i.+p libelled for this.”
”I'll make good your losses,” Emerson volunteered, quickly, realizing that other ears were open.
”Why, it's mutiny, sir.”
”Exactly! You can say you went out under duress.”
”I never heard of such a thing,” stormed the skipper. Then, more quietly, ”But I don't seem to have any choice in the matter; do I?”
”None whatever.”
”Tell them to go to h.e.l.l!” growled Balt from the open window above their head.
A blasphemous outcry floated up from the launch, while heads protruded from the deck-house openings, the faces white in the slanting glare. ”Why don't you heave to?” demanded a voice.
Peasley stepped to the end of the bridge and called down: ”I can't stop, my good man, they won't allow it, y' know. You'll have to b.l.o.o.d.y well come aboard yourself.” Then, obedient to his command, the search-light traced an arc through the darkness and died out, leaving the little craft in darkness, save for its dim lantern.
Unseen by the amazed quartermaster, who was startled out of speech and action, Emerson gripped the Captain's shoulder and whispered his thanks, while the Britisher grumbled under his breath:
”Bli' me! Won't that labor crowd be hot? They nearly bashed in my head with that iron spike. Four hundred pounds! My word!”
The sputter of the craft alongside was now punctuated by such a volley of curses that he raised his voice again: ”Belay that chatter, will you?
There's a lady aboard.”
The police launch sheered off, and the sound of her exhaust grew rapidly fainter and fainter. But not until it had wholly ceased did Big George give over his post at the wheel. Even then he went down the ladder reluctantly, and without a word of thanks, of explanation, or of apology.
With him this had been but a part of the day's work. He saw neither sentiment nor humor in the episode. The clang of the deep-throated s.h.i.+p's bell spoke the hour, and, taking Cherry's arm, Boyd helped her to the deck.