"You propose that we fit out a schooner and sign on a crew. What
will happen? A man with a sabre cut across his forehead, or with a
black patch over one eye, will inevitably be one of that crew. And,
as soon as we sail, he will at once begin to plot against us. A
cabin boy who the conspirators think is asleep in his bunk will
overhear their plot and will run to the quarter-deck to give
warning; but a pistol shot rings out, and the cabin boy falls at
the foot of the companion ladder. The cabin boy is always the first
one to go. After that the mutineers kill the first mate, and lock
us in our cabin, and take over the ship. They will then broach a
cask of rum, and all through the night we will listen to their
drunken howlings, and from the cabin airport watch the body of the
first mate rolling in the lee scuppers."
"But you forget," I protested eagerly, "there is always ONE
faithful member of the crew, who----"
Edgar interrupted me impatiently.
"I have not overlooked him," he said. "He is a Jamaica negro of
gigantic proportions, or the ship's cook; but he always gets his
too, and he gets it good. They throw HIM to the sharks! Then we all
camp out on a desert island inhabited only by goats, and we build
a stockade, and the mutineers come to treat with us under a white
flag, and we, trusting entirely to their honor, are fools enough to
go out and talk with them. At which they shoot us up, and withdraw
laughing scornfully.
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