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Successive explosions, some light, some severe, shook the foundations of the island. Great rocks and boulders bounded down the hills. The flashes of lightning had become more frequent. We moved, exaggerated to each other's vision by the strange light, uncouth and gigantic. "Let's get out of this!" cried Thrackles. We turned at the word and ran, Thrackles staggering under the weight of the chest.
As to the second point, I, finding the sun unexpectedly strong, returned from the cove for my hat, and so overheard the following between Thrackles and his leader: "What's to keep him from staying aboard?" cried Thrackles, protesting. "Well, he might," acknowledged Handy Solomon, "and then are we the worse off? You ain't going to make a boat attack against Old Scrubs, are you?"
And would you believe it, even through the blood haze of their combat the men heard him, and heeded. They drew reluctantly apart, got to their feet, stood looking at him through reeking brows half submissive and half defiant. The bull-headed Thrackles even took a half step forward, but froze in his tracks when Old Scrubs looked at him.
Before I could look away he had followed the direction of my gaze. The discussion instantly ceased. They waited in grim silence. I did not know what to do. Percy Darrow, carrying some sort of large book, was walking rapidly toward us. Perdosa had disappeared. Thrackles after an instant came and sat beside me and clapped his big hand over my mouth. It was horrible.
The captain thereupon felled him to the deck, and began brutally to kick him in the face and head. Perdosa writhed and begged, but without avail. The other members of the crew gathered near. After a moment, they began to murmur. Finally Thrackles ventured, most respectfully, to intervene. "You'll kill him, sir," he interposed. "He's had enough." "Had enough, has he?" screeched the captain.
Generally I lay across my bunk smoking my pipe while Handy Solomon held forth, his speech punctuated by surly speculations from the Nigger, with hesitating deep-sea wisdom from the hairy Thrackles, or with voluminous bursts of fractured English from Perdosa. Pulz had nothing to offer, but watched from his pale green eyes.
We stopped and gasped as it hit our eyes. Darrow alone was unmoved. He led the way forward and in an instant had disappeared behind the veil of steam. Thrackles and Perdosa hung back murmuring, but at a sharp word from me gathered their courage in their two hands and proceeded.
Eager for any chance I hissed under my breath; "Danger! Look out!" I could not tell whether or not Darrow heard me. He left soon after. The mention of the chest had focussed the men's interest. "Well," Pulz began, "we've been here on this spot o' hell for a long time." "A year and five months," reckoned Thrackles. "A man can do a lot in that time." "If he's busy." "They've been busy." "Yes."
He seemed to come to himself with a start; his eye fell surprisedly on the combatants, then lit up with an unholy joy. He drew his knife and crept down on the fighters. It was too good an opportunity to pay off the Mexican. But Thrackles interfered sharply. "Come off!" he commanded. "None o' that!" "Go to hell!" growled the Nigger.
"Damn his soul!" cried Handy Solomon, his face livid. He threw his rifle to the beach and danced on it in an ecstasy of rage. "What do we care," growled Thrackles, "he's no good to us. W'at I want to know is, wat's up here, anyhow!" "Didn't you never see a volcano go off, you swab?" snapped Handy Solomon. "Easy with your names, mate. No, I never did. We better get out." "Without the chest?"
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