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Even in their alarm they realized that nothing very terrible would
happen now. But why had the shot been fired, and what had given that
tense ring to Courtenay's threat?
Venturing a little further, they gained the bridge. On the main deck,
a long way beneath, near an open hatch, a half-caste Chilean was lying
on his back. He had evidently been wounded. Blood was flowing from
his leg; it smeared the white deck. The officer who had climbed down
so speedily from the bridge was directing two other men how to lift
him. Close by, the chief officer, Mr. Boyle, was stanching a deep cut
on his chin with a handkerchief. At the same time he curtly ordered
off such deck hands and stewards as came running forward, attracted by
the disturbance.
The girls were gazing wide-eyed at this somewhat unnerving scene, when
Courtenay approached.
"Better go below," he said quietly. "I am sorry this trouble should
have happened, at the beginning of the voyage, too. I hope it will not
upset you. That rascally Chilean tried to knife Mr. Boyle, and those
other blackguards were ready to side with him.


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