"Look. Don't they mean to sleep soft--and dream of
home--maybe. Home. Think of that, Captain. These chaps can't get clear
away from it. It isn't like you and me--"
Lingard made a movement.
"I ran away myself when so high. My old man's a Trinity pilot. That's a
job worth staying at home for. Mother writes sometimes, but they can't
miss me much. There's fourteen of us altogether--eight at home yet. No
fear of the old country ever getting undermanned--let die who must. Only
let it be a fair game, Captain. Let's have a fair show."
Lingard assured him briefly he should have it. That was the very reason
he wanted the yacht's crew in the brig, he added. Then quiet and grave
he inquired whether that pistol was still in Carter's pocket.
"Never mind that," said the young man, hurriedly. "Remember who began.
To be shot at wouldn't rile me so much--it's being threatened, don't you
see, that was heavy on my chest. Last night is very far off though--and
I will be hanged if I know what I meant exactly when I took the old
thing from its nail. There. More I can't say till all's settled one way
or another. Will that do?"
Flushing brick red, he suspended his judgment and stayed his hand with
the generosity of youth.
. . . . . . .
Apparently it suited Lingard to be reprieved in that form.
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