is how he felt about the man he had attached himself to. He gripped his
broken oar with his moistened palm and fingers and waited hopefully. He
had not long to wait.

Suddenly the door of the skipper's house flew open and out of the glow
of candle-light leaped a figure that might easily (under the
circumstances and condition of the mob) have been the devil
himself--himself, the father of all the little devils in hell. The
wrathful bellow of him was like the roar of a wounded walrus. He touched
ground in the centre of the front rank of the mob, and as his feet
touched the ground his billet of green birch cracked down upon a skull.
And still he continued to roar; and still the club cracked and cracked;
and then Bill Brennen got heartily to work on the rear rank with his
broken oar.

The mob of mutineers had arrived intoxicated, and with no very clear
idea of what they intended to do to the witch and the skipper. They had
intended to make the first move, however; of that they were certain.
They had intended to open the door themselves--and now some divil had
opened it before they were ready! They were so unsteady on their feet
that no man of them stood up for a second blow. A few got to work on
their own account; but it was so dark that they did little damage even
to their friends. After five or six had fallen the next in order for
treatment faced about to retire. In their indignation and bewilderment
they discovered that another club was at work in their rear. This
unnerved them so that they--the survivors of the demonstration--raised
their voices to heaven in expostulation and stampeded. They went over
Bill Brennen like a wave over a bar, knocking the breath out of him, and
sending the oar flying from his grasp; but the skipper kept right after
them, still roaring, still plying the billet of green birch. They