“You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you. 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.
“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.”
The interchange of angry phrases went on aloud, amidst general consternation.
“I would turn my back on you only I am thinking of these poor devils here,” growled Lingard, furiously. “Did you ask them how they feel about it?”
“I ask no one,” spluttered Mr. Travers. “Everybody here depends on my judgment.”
“I am sorry for them then,” pronounced Lingard with sudden deliberation, and leaning forward with his arms crossed on his breast.
At this Mr. Travers positively jumped, and forgot himself so far as to shout:
“You are an impudent fellow. I have nothing more to say to you.”
D'Alcacer, after muttering to himself, “This is getting serious,” made a movement, and could not believe his ears when he heard Mrs. Travers say rapidly with a kind of fervour:
“Don't go, pray; don't stop them. Oh! This is truth--this is anger--something real at last.”
D'Alcacer leaned back at once against the rail.