The Mutiny of the Elsinore. Джек Лондон

passed before us they favoured Mr. Pike with the same indifferent, keen glances they gave me.

      “What’s your name—you?” Mr. Pike barked at the first of the trio, evidently a hybrid Irish-Jew. Jewish his nose unmistakably was. Equally unmistakable was the Irish of his eyes, and jaw, and upper lip.

      The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look directly at one another, they seemed to be holding a silent conference. Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows what Semitic, Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal. Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod. I almost doubted that I had intercepted it, and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his fellows. More a shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a glint in them of sudden light—or whatever it was, it carried the message.

      “Murphy,” the other answered the mate.

      “Sir!” Mr. Pike snarled at him.

      Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand. It was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise that impressed me.

      “When you address any officer on this ship you’ll say ‘sir,’ ” Mr. Pike explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding. “Did you get that?”

      “Yes … sir,” Murphy drawled with deliberate slowness. “I gotcha.”

      “Sir!” Mr. Pike roared.

      “Sir,” Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated the mate to further bullyragging.

      “Well, Murphy’s too long,” he announced. “Nosey’ll do you aboard this craft. Got that?”

      “I gotcha … sir,” came the reply, insolent in its very softness and unconcern. “Nosey Murphy goes … sir.”

      And then he laughed—the three of them laughed, if laughter it might be called that was laughter without sound or facial movement. The eyes alone laughed, mirthlessly and cold-bloodedly.

      Certainly Mr. Pike was not enjoying himself with these baffling personalities. He turned upon the leader, the one who had given the warning and who looked the admixture of all that was Mediterranean and Semitic.

      “What’s your name?”

      “Bert Rhine … sir,” was the reply, in tones as soft and careless and silkily irritating as the other’s.

      “And you?”—this to the remaining one, the youngest of the trio, a dark-eyed, olive-skinned fellow with a face most striking in its cameo-like beauty. American-born, I placed him, of immigrants from Southern Italy—from Naples, or even Sicily.

      “Twist … sir,” he answered, precisely in the same manner as the others.

      “Too long,” the mate sneered. “The Kid’ll do you. Got that?”

      “I gotcha … sir. Kid Twist’ll do me … sir.”

      “Kid’ll do!”

      “Kid … sir.”

      And the three laughed their silent, mirthless laugh. By this time Mr. Pike was beside himself with a rage that could find no excuse for action.

      “Now I’m going to tell you something, the bunch of you, for the good of your health.” The mate’s voice grated with the rage he was suppressing. “I know your kind. You’re dirt. D’ye get that? You’re dirt. And on this ship you’ll be treated as dirt. You’ll do your work like men, or I’ll know the reason why. The first time one of you bats an eye, or even looks like batting an eye, he gets his. D’ye get that? Now get out. Get along for’ard to the windlass.”

      Mr. Pike turned on his heel, and I swung alongside of him as he moved aft.

      “What do you make of them?” I queried.

      “The limit,” he grunted. “I know their kidney. They’ve done time, the three of them. They’re just plain sweepings of hell—”

      Here his speech was broken off by the spectacle that greeted him on Number Two hatch. Sprawled out on the hatch were five or six men, among them Larry, the tatterdemalion who had called him “old stiff” earlier in the afternoon. That Larry had not obeyed orders was patent, for he was sitting with his back propped against his sea-bag, which ought to have been in the forecastle. Also, he and the group with him ought to have been for’ard manning the windlass.

      The mate stepped upon the hatch and towered over the man.

      “Get up,” he ordered.

      Larry made an effort, groaned, and failed to get up.

      “I can’t,” he said.

      “Sir!”

      “I can’t, sir. I was drunk last night an’ slept in Jefferson Market. An’ this mornin’ I was froze tight, sir. They had to pry me loose.”

      “Stiff with the cold you were, eh?” the mate grinned.

      “It’s well ye might say it, sir,” Larry answered.

      “And you feel like an old stiff, eh?”

      Larry blinked with the troubled, querulous eyes of a monkey. He was beginning to apprehend he knew not what, and he knew that bending over him was a man-master.

      “Well, I’ll just be showin’ you what an old stiff feels like, anyways.” Mr. Pike mimicked the other’s brogue.

      And now I shall tell what I saw happen. Please remember what I have said of the huge paws of Mr. Pike, the fingers much longer than mine and twice as thick, the wrists massive-boned, the arm-bones and the shoulder-bones of the same massive order. With one flip of his right hand, with what I might call an open-handed, lifting, upward slap, save that it was the ends of the fingers only that touched Larry’s face, he lifted Larry into the air, sprawling him backward on his back across his sea-bag.

      The man alongside of Larry emitted a menacing growl and started to spring belligerently to his feet. But he never reached his feet. Mr. Pike, with the back of same right hand, open, smote the man on the side of the face. The loud smack of the impact was startling. The mate’s strength was amazing. The blow looked so easy, so effortless; it had seemed like the lazy stroke of a good-natured bear, but in it was such a weight of bone and muscle that the man went down sidewise and rolled off the hatch on to the deck.

      At this moment, lurching aimlessly along, appeared O’Sullivan. A sudden access of muttering, on his part, reached Mr. Pike’s ear, and Mr. Pike, instantly keen as a wild animal, his paw in the act of striking O’Sullivan, whipped out like a revolver shot, “What’s that?” Then he noted the sense-struck face of O’Sullivan and withheld the blow. “Bug-house,” Mr. Pike commented.

      Involuntarily I had glanced to see if Captain West was on the poop, and found that we were hidden from the poop by the ’midship house.

      Mr. Pike, taking no notice of the man who lay groaning on the deck, stood over Larry, who was likewise groaning. The rest of the sprawling men were on their feet, subdued and respectful. I, too, was respectful of this terrific, aged figure of a man. The exhibition had quite convinced me of the verity of his earlier driving and killing days.

      “Who’s the old stiff now?” he demanded.

      “ ’Tis me, sir,” Larry moaned contritely.

      “Get up!”

      Larry got up without any difficulty at all.

      “Now get for’ard to the windlass! The rest of you!”

      And they went, sullenly, shamblingly, like the cowed brutes they were.

CHAPTER VI

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