There was little inclination for conversation now, and they continued the search, but not a gold ingot could they find.
"The female corby's below—" Benson reported, "bad case o' nerves after what just happened. She's pitchin' and tossin' in her bunk like a catboat in a blow."
By stress of atrocious threats, which he never would have fulfilled, he forced her into the captain's presence. The latter addressed her sternly:
"See here—that won't do any good. I want you to answer a few questions. I don't know what you're doing here with this crew, but your friends have murdered one of my men."
"Murdered!" she gasped.
"Yaller bird's play-action'," sneered the incredulous boatswain, but the surprise and fear seemed natural.
"Yes, foully—if you're innocent, you may prove it by your answers."
"What do you want?" She choked out the question.
"Who killed Old Joe?"
"I don't know—didn't know it was him that was killed—didn't know anyone was killed."
"Now be careful."
"It's God's own truth."
"Don't be frightened. If you tell us, we'll protect you."
"The only thing I know was, that it wasn't the Kid."
"The Kid? Who—Huntington?"
Averting her face, a strange attitude for one of her assurance, she nodded. Tears had inundated with rivulets the rouge on her face, the lids were swollen, and she had intermittent attacks of sniffles—truly, a different girl than
