She summoned the still-sleeping sailors, and then drew nearer, with beating heart, hoping in some way, she didn't just know how, to prevent that imminent conflict. Phil was "scrappy" enough and that other awful man was just spoiling for a fight—you could tell that by the ugly way he curved that shoulder and the way he swung his hands.
Her senses sharpened by her fear, she could distinguish what they were saying now—the Captain's caution: "Go easy, Ben, remember Sally's here"; the answer, "She's asleep, she won't know—I'm going to settle that little thing right here and now."
Now it was the cool, suave voice of the tall man:
"Good evening, gentlemen."
"Howdyedo." Ben slurred the greeting sarcastically and rudely. "What's the big idea? Sneaking around like a crew of oyster-pirates?"
He seldom lost his temper. It was generally pretty even. That was just the reason why she was frightened now that she saw it was thoroughly aroused, though still under some control.
Phil was saying with cool impudence:
"Why if it isn't Ben Boltwood! How are you Ben? Put her there, old top."
"Get out you—." Sally thought he called Phil by the name of the malodorous animal which all women shrink from, and oddly there recurred to her that old piece of advice by the uxorious king who never took any himself: "Evil Communications corrupt good manners." My! but her boy's were horrid that night. He was in bad company, sure enough.
