"But I walked out again, and fetched the trapper with me.
He loves his life, does this fat rascal."
Colonel Bishop stood in the waist, his great face blenched to the
colour of clay, his mouth loose, almost afraid to look at the sturdy
ruffians who lounged about the shot-rack on the main hatch.
Blood shouted an order to the bo'sun, who was leaning against the
forecastle bulkhead.
"Throw me a rope with a running noose over the yardarm there,
against the need of it. Now, don't be alarming yourself, Colonel,
darling. It's no more than a provision against your being
unreasonable, which I am sure ye'll not be. We'll talk the matter
over whiles we are dining, for I trust ye'll not refuse to honour
my table by your company."
He led away the will-less, cowed bully to the great cabin. Benjamin,
the negro steward, in white drawers and cotton shirt, made haste
by his command to serve dinner.
Colonel Bishop collapsed on the locker under the stern ports, and
spoke now for the first time.
"May I ask wha... what are your intentions?" he quavered.
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