Sir John, as it happens,
is a personal friend of mine. He will send a cruiser--" and Lingard
interrupted recklessly loud:
"As long as she does not get here for the next ten days, I don't care.
Cruisers are scarce just now in the Straits; and to turn my back on you
is no hanging matter anyhow. I would risk that, and more! Do you hear?
And more!"
He stamped his foot heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.
"You will gain nothing by trying to frighten me," he said. "I don't know
who you are."
Every eye in the yacht was wide open. The men, crowded upon each
other, stared stupidly like a flock of sheep. Mr. Travers pulled out
a handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. The face of the
sailing-master who leaned against the main mast--as near as he dared
to approach the gentry--was shining and crimson between white whiskers,
like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.
D'Alcacer whispered:
"It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt."
Mrs. Travers' fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if waiting
to hear more.
"Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?" asked d'Alcacer.
She did not answer, and after waiting a little, he insisted:
"What is your opinion? Shall I try to mediate--as a neutral, as a
benevolent neutral? I like that man with the beard.
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