"Let him go, then; the world is full of men," said Don Abrahan, calm and undisturbed.
"My ship ain't!" the captain retorted sharply. "Out of my way, damn you! or I'll drill you through."
Don Abrahan waved his arm in what seemed nothing more than a slow, indolent gesture of denial. Simon, the driver, sprang out of his smoky lethargy, which even this affray among the Yankees had not disturbed. Captain Welliver found himself confronting a pistol, which Simon waited but the command of his master's lifted hand to fire. The argument was good with the captain; he put his own weapon away, fairly inundating that shore, and all who stood upon it, with the stream of his profane abuse.
"It will be time to return to business," said Don Abrahan, cutting him short in such relief as he was finding in that wordy vent.
"Twenty-five dollars to the man or men that bring that deserter back!" the captain offered, bringing away his hand from the side of his face, seeing blood on it.
Nobody but the mate moved to win the reward. He sprang up the bank and started after the sailor, who was entering the thick tangle of brushwood a little distance beyond the Indians' camp. Don Abrahan interposed again.
"What is one man, more or less?" he inquired, the inflection of contempt in his words. "There is a good one, an Irishman with red hair, in the jail at
