We are not pigs. We want
a hand in running things, and we want a portion of rum served at meals,
as every decent ship allows. We want--"
"Oh, so it's drink, not eating," satirized Madden.
"Rum's our right as sailormen," mumbled Galton.
"Rum in this climate?" Ridicule tinctured the American's tone. "Smith, I
believe you once proposed to write an article on Climate and
Alcoholism." He turned to the men. "Do you fellows want to build a fire
inside yourselves when your lungs and hearts are strained to breaking
already?"
"It cools you off in hot weather," answered a voice in the crowd.
"Cools nothing! It heats you up." He leaned forward and tapped the table
decisively at each word, "It won't be served, y'understand!" His last
tap was a thump. "I'm boss here--no rum! And I'll tell you right now,
I'm going to cut your rations one-third, too--hear? Now, get out, all
of you--move out o' my cabin!"
There was a shuffling among the navvies toward the arrowy lad who
confronted them. Deschaillon balanced himself on one leg, French boxing
fashion, ready to kick out with the deadly accuracy of an ostrich. Hogan
gave a brief happy laugh, broken by his jump, the crack of his fist
against some jaw and the stumbling of a man.
As the fight flamed down the sweating line, Farnol Greer suddenly rushed
through the door.
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