The three had immediately stopped, and, though they did not look
directly at one another, they seemed to be holding a silent
conference. Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows
what Semitic, Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal.
Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod. I almost doubted that I had
intercepted it, and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his
fellows. More a shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a
glint in them of sudden light--or whatever it was, it carried the
message.

"Murphy," the other answered the mate.

"Sir!" Mr. Pike snarled at him.

Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand.
It was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise
that impressed me.

"When you address any officer on this ship you'll say 'sir,'" Mr.
Pike explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding. "Did
you get THAT?"

"Yes . . sir,'' Murphy drawled with deliberate slowness. "I
gotcha."

"Sir!" Mr. Pike roared.

"Sir," Murphy answered, so softly and carelessly that it irritated
the mate to further bullyragging.