|On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmdwy

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ch must have exasperated Mr. Travers, because his
voice was pitched higher:
"You are playing a dangerous game, I warn you. Sir John, as it
happens, is a personal friend of mine. He will send a cruiser--"
and Lingard interrupted recklessly loud:
"As long as she does not get here for the next ten days, I don't
care. Cruisers are scarce just now in the Straits; and to turn my
back on you is no hanging matter anyhow. I would risk that, and
more! Do you hear? And more!"
He stamped his foot heavily, Mr. Travers stepped back.
"You will gain nothing by trying to frighten me," he said. "I
don't know who you are."
Every eye in the yacht was wide open. The men, crowded upon each
other, stared stupidly like a flock of sheep. Mr. Travers pulled
out a handkerchief and passed it over his forehead. The face of
the sailing-master who leaned against the main mast--as near as
he dared to approach the gentry--was shining and crimson between
white whiskers, like a glowing coal between two patches of snow.
D'Alcacer whispered:
"It is a quarrel, and the picturesque man is angry. He is hurt."
Mrs. Travers' fan rested on her knees, and she sat still as if
waiting to hear more.
"Do you think I ought to make an effort for peace?" askedyilai：
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On the Makaloa Mat LondonJack Publishedabmelr