"Children of Satan!" he said at last, recovering his breath during their
laughter--"Imps of darkness!" he added, holding out both hands in front,
as he would keep them from contaminating him by their touch--"if that ye
ever hope for pardon----"
"I told ye he was a Roundhead--a negotiator," shouted one of the rudest;
"stop his gab at once--yard-arm him."
"Peace, peace!" interrupted young Springall; "he is part of our
skipper's cargo, a harmless mad preacher, and no spy; he'd talk to ye by
the hour, and make as rare sport as a mass-service at Lisbon--if ye
hadn't something else to think of."
"Hear him, hear him!" exclaimed the thoughtless fellows, who forgot
their own and their ship's danger in expectation of some revelry.
"Hear him," repeated Roupall, while occupied in searching his pockets.
"Albeit I was not sent unto ye, ye worthless, blasphemous, and accursed
crew--" began Fleetword.
"Above there!" sung out a little one-eyed seaman, squinting up at our
friend, and poising a long lath so as to arrest his attention by a smart
blow across the knees, which made the poor man elevate first one limb
and then the other, in what soldiers term 'double quick time.' "Keep a
civil tongue in your head," he added, threatening to renew the salute.
"For shame, Tom o' Coventry," said Springall, who had more generosity in
his nature; "if you don't behave, I'll spit ye as neatly as ever
top-mast studding sail was spitted on the broken stump of a boom in a
smart gale,--d'ye hear that, master officer--that was--but is not?"
This insult could not be received quietly, because it was deserved, and
the diminutive sailor applied the weapon to Master Springall's shins, so
as to set his hot blood raving for encounter. Fleetword heeded not this,
but rejoicing sincerely in any event that gave him opportunity of
speech, proceeded to anathematize the whole assembly as confidently as
if he had been the pope's legate. Roupall, having finished his
investigation of Fleetword's pockets, advanced one step, and, taking Tom
o' Coventry by the collar, shook him and Springall apart as if they had
been two puppy dogs, while the others bawled loudly for fair play. At
this instant the door opened, and Dalton strode into the midst of them
with that lordly step and dignified aspect he could so well, not only
assume, but preserve; even Fleetword was silenced, when the Skipper,
turning to him, demanded how he came there, and if he had forgotten that
a dying woman had solicited his aid.