I'll take you with the rest, only of
course you get no fifteen pound."
The impudence was so extreme and startling that all
breathed deep, and Goddedaal raised up his face and
looked his superior sternly in the eye.
But Mac was more articulate. "And you're what ye call
a British sayman, I suppose? the sorrow in your guts!"
he cried.
"One more such word, and I clap you in irons!" said
Trent, rising gleefully at the face of opposition.
"And where would I be the while you were doin' ut?"
asked Mac. "After you and your rigging, too! Ye ould
puggy, ye haven't the civility of a bug, and I'll learn
ye some."
His voice did not even rise as he uttered the threat;
no man present, Trent least of all, expected that which
followed. The Irishman's hand rose suddenly from below
the table, an open clasp-knife balanced on the palm;
there was a movement swift as conjuring; Trent started
half to his feet, turning a little as he rose so as to
escape the table, and the movement was his bane. The
missile struck him in the jugular; he fell forward, and
his blood flowed among the dishes on the cloth.
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