Mr. Pike is beside himself. In the past two days he has displayed
increasing possession of himself by the one idea of vengeance on the
second mate. It is not the mutiny, irksome as it is and helpless as
it makes him; it is the presence of the murderer of his old-time and
admired skipper, Captain Somers.
The mate grins at the mutiny, calls it a snap, speaks gleefully of
how his wages are running up, and regrets that he is not ashore,
where he would be able to take a hand in gambling on the reinsurance.
But the sight of Sidney Waltham, calmly gazing at sea and sky from
the forecastle-head, or astride the far end of the bowsprit and
fishing for sharks, saddens him. Yesterday, coming to relieve me, he
borrowed my rifle and turned loose the stream of tiny pellets on the
second mate, who coolly made his line secure ere he scrambled in-
board. Of course, it was only one chance in a hundred that Mr. Pike
might have hit him, but Sidney Waltham did not care to encourage the
chance.
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