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."
