His square, smooth-shaven chin was thrust out
between his bushy side-whiskers, and his eyes shot fiercely, first at
Roger, then at me.
A small swinging lantern lighted the scene. Its rays made the corners seem
dark and remote. They fell on the rough features of the old merchant
mariner who owned the ship and who so largely controlled our fortunes,
making him seem more irascible than ever, and faded out in the early
morning light that came in through the deadlights.
At last he placed his hands each on the opposite shoulder, planted his
elbows on the table, and fiercely glared at us while he demanded, "Have you
two young men stopped yet to think how it'll seem to be hanged?"
The lantern swung slowly during the silence that followed. The shadows
swayed haltingly from side to side.
"No," cried Roger hotly, "we have not, Captain Webster. We've been too busy
looking after _your_ interests."
The scar where the case-knife had slashed his cheek so long ago stood
starkly out from the dull red of his face.
At that the old man threw back his head and burst into a great guffaw of
laughter. He laughed until the lantern trembled, until his chair leaned so
far back that I feared he was about to fall,--or hoped he was,--until it
seemed as if the echoes must come booming back from the farthest shore.
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