CHAPTER IV

THE RUSSIAN SAILOR'S PLOT

Captain Ponsberry's stern manner made Ostag Semmel wild with hatred, and
when he went back to the forecastle after swabbing up the deck he was in
a fit mental condition for almost any dark deed.

For a good half-hour he lay in his bunk in a corner, brooding over his
ill-luck and wondering what he could do to revenge himself upon both the
master of the schooner and Larry. Larry he especially disliked--the very
open-heartedness of the young second mate made him long to do the lad
harm.

At the end of the half-hour another sailor came in. It was Carl
Peterson, his close friend. Peterson was a burly tar who had visited
nearly every quarter of the globe. He loved to drink and carouse, and
was ever ready to lend a hand in any excitement that offered. There was
a rumor that he had once led a mutiny on a Danish merchant vessel, but
this he denied, laying the blame entirely on others.

"Is that you, Peterson?" demanded Semmel, in his native tongue, for he
knew that the other could speak Russian fluently.

"Yes," came in a rough voice from Peterson. He gave a coarse laugh. "A
fine job you made of it, to pour dirty water over Russell and then have
to swab up the deck for it."

"Who told you of that?"

"Didn't I see it with my own eyes--and heard what the captain said,
too."

"Bah! It makes me sick!" growled Semmel. "I am sick of the ship--the
crew--everything!"

Peterson gave a short toss of his head, which was covered with a shock
of fiery red hair. "What are you going to do about it? Even if the
captain treats you like a dog, what shall you do, Ostag Semmel? He
thinks we are all curs--door mats to wipe feet on!"

"He shall find out that I am neither a dog nor a door mat!" muttered the
bearded Russian. "By my right hand I promise you that!"

"Talk is cheap--it takes wind to make the mill go," answered Peterson.
To an outsider it would have been plain to see that he was leading
Semmel on, in an endeavor to find out what was in his companion's mind.

"It will not end in talk."

"Bah! I have heard that before."

"I have been thinking," went on Ostag Semmel, slowly. "Can I trust you?"

"You know you can."

"You do not love the captain--do not love that Russell?"

"Do I act as if I did?"

"Good! Now, how many on board of this ship?"

"Fourteen men, counting in ourselves."

"You count fairly. Fourteen, how many are our friends?"

"Postnak and Conroy, at least