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Peter Blood gave an order. A plank was run out over the gunwale,
and lashed down.
"If you please, Colonel," said he, with a graceful flourish of
invitation.
The Colonel looked at him, and there was hell in his glance. Then,
taking his resolve, and putting the best face upon it, since no
other could help him here, he kicked off his shoes, peeled off his
fine coat of biscuit-coloured taffetas, and climbed upon the plank.
A moment he paused, steadied by a hand that clutched the ratlines,
looking down in terror at the green water rushing past some
five-and-twenty feet below.
"Just take a little walk, Colonel, darling," said a smooth, mocking
voice behind him.
Still clinging, Colonel Bishop looked round in hesitation, and saw
the bulwarks lined with swarthy faces - the faces of men that as
lately as yesterday would have turned pale under his frown, faces
that were now all wickedly agrin.
For a moment rage stamped out his fear. He cursed them aloud
venomously and incoherently, then loosed his hold and stepped out
upon the plank.


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