As the captain emerged
from the passage to the open deck, he heard Pearson reply in the same
language.
"What's the matter?" he asked.
Pearson answered without turning his head.
"Drunken sailors," he explained. "Part of the crew here. They've been
uptown, got full, and come back to square a grudge they seem to have
against the steward. I'm telling them they'd better give up and go
ashore, if they know when they're well off."
The three fellows by the ladder's foot were consulting together. On the
wharf were half a dozen loungers, collected by the prospect of a row.
"If I can hold them off for a few minutes," went on Pearson, "we'll be
all right. The wharf watchman has gone for the police. Here! drop it!
What are you up to?"
One of the sailors had drawn a knife. The other two reached for their
belts behind, evidently intending to follow suit. From the loafers on
the wharf came shouts of encouragement.
"Do the dude up, Pedro! Give him what's comin' to him."
The trio formed for a rush. The steward, with a shrill scream, fled to
the cabin. Pearson did not move; he even smiled. The next moment he was
pushed to one side, and Captain Elisha stood at the top of the steps.
"Here!" he said, sternly. "What's all this?"
The three sailors, astonished at this unexpected addition to their
enemies forces, hesitated.
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