And, when next she moved, the vessel might
slip away into the depths!
These and kindred thoughts, thoughts without sequence and almost
without number, flew through his mind with incredible speed. They were
lucid and reasoned, their pros and cons equally dealt with--he could
have answered any question on each point were it propounded by a board
of examiners--and all this took place within a few seconds, between the
impact of one big wave and another.
A man rushed by, or tried to do so. Courtenay recognized him as a
leading stoker who had temporary charge of the donkey-boiler and seized
him wrathfully, his eyes ablaze.
"Go back!" he roared.
"Senor! The ship is lost!"
"Go back, and await my orders."
He could have strangled the fugitive in his sudden rage. The fireman
endeavored to gasp his readiness to obey. Courtenay relaxed his grip,
and, for a time, at least one member of the crew stuck to his post,
fearing the mad captain more than death.
A mob of stewards and kitchen hands came in a torrent up the saloon
stairs. Courtenay met them, a terrifying figure, and thrust a revolver
in their faces.
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