ustered around the shore-end of the
hawser. He saw that they feared treachery. He made his way across, cool,
fearless, with a dangerous smile on his lips.

CHAPTER VIII

THE SKIPPER STRUGGLES AGAINST SUPERSTITION

"She lays snug enough. We'll break out the freight, to-morrow," said the
skipper.

"Aye, skipper, aye," returned Bill Brennen, with an unsuccessful attempt
to put some heartiness into his tones; but the others did not say a
word. They made litters for the dead and wounded, gathered up the spoils
of the cabins, and set off sullenly for Chance Along. The skipper stood
to one side and watched them from under lowering brows. At the first
stroke of misfortune they were sulking and snarling at him like a pack
of wolf-dogs. They evidently expected a boat-load of gold from every
wreck, and no casualties. He despised and hated them. He hurried after
them and called a halt. He ordered them to break open the ship's boxes.
They obeyed him in sullen wonder.

"If ye find any gold," he said, "count it an' divide it amongst ye. An'
the same wid the rest o' the gear. An' here bes somethin' more for ye!"
He tossed the purse and the earrings to them. "Take 'em. Keep 'em. I
take no shares wid a crew like ye--not this time, anyhow, ye cowardly,
unthankful, treacherous swabs! Aye, count the gold, damn ye! an' stow it
away in yer pockets. I bes makin' rich men o' ye--an' at a turn o' bad
luck ye all be ready to knife me. D'ye think I kilt them t'ree dead
fools? Nay, they kilt themselves wid fear of a poor drownded woman!
T'ree more would ha' bin stunned and drownded but for me. Holy saints
above! I bes minded to leave ye to fish an' starve--all o' ye save them
as has stood to me like men an' them o' me own blood--an' go to another
harbor. Ye white-livered pack o' wolf-breed huskies! Ye cowardly,
snarlin', treacherous divils. Take yer money. I gives it to ye. Go home
an' feed on the good grub I gives to ye an' drink the liquor ye'd never
have the wits nor the courage to salve but for me! Go home wid ye, out
o' my sight, or maybe I'll forgit the flabby-hearted swabs ye be an'
give ye a taste o' me bat!"

The skipper's fury increased with the utterance of every bellowed word.
His dark face burned crimson, and his black eyes glowed like coals in
the open draught of a stove. His teeth flashed between his snarling
lips like a timber-wolf's fangs. He shook his fist at them, picked up a
birch billet, which was a part of the w