The iron of all his years of
iron training was there manifest. While mutiny spread red, and death
was on the wing, he could not forget his charge, the ship, the
Elsinore, the insensate fabric compounded of steel and hemp and woven
cotton that was to him glorious with personality.
Margaret waved Wada in my direction as she ran to the wheel. As Mr.
Pike passed the corner of the chart-house, simultaneously there was a
report from amidships and the ping of a bullet against the steel
wall. I saw the man who fired the shot. It was the cowboy, Steve
Roberts.
As for the mate, he ducked in behind the sheltering jiggermast, and
even as he ducked his left hand dipped into his side coat-pocket, so
that when he had gained shelter it was coming out with a fresh clip
of cartridges. The empty clip fell to the deck, the loader clip
slipped up the hollow butt, and he was good for eight more shots.
Wada turned the little automatic rifle over to me, where I still
stood under the weather cloth at the break of the poop.
"All ready," he said.
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