He was not one who could keep track of his sensations, and besides he had not the leisure.  He had to answer Lingard’s questions about the people of the yacht.  No, he couldn’t say Mrs. Travers was what you may call frightened.  She seemed to have something in her mind.  Oh, yes!  The chaps were in a funk.  Would they fight?  Anybody would fight when driven to it, funk or no funk.  That was his experience.  Naturally one liked to have something better than a handspike to do it with.  Still—­In the pause Carter seemed to weigh with composure the chances of men with handspikes.

“What do you want to fight us for?” he asked, suddenly.

Lingard started.

“I don’t,” he said; “I wouldn’t be asking you.”

“There’s no saying what you would do, Captain,” replied Carter; “it isn’t twenty-four hours since you wanted to shoot me.”

“I only said I would, rather than let you go raising trouble for me,” explained Lingard.

“One night isn’t like another,” mumbled Carter, “but how am I to know?  It seems to me you are making trouble for yourself as fast as you can.”

“Well, supposing I am,” said Lingard with sudden gloominess.  “Would your men fight if I armed them properly?”

“What—­for you or for themselves?” asked Carter.

“For the woman,” burst out Lingard.  “You forget there’s a woman on board.  I don’t care that for their carcases.”

Carter pondered conscientiously.

“Not to-night,” he said at last.  “There’s one or two good men amongst them, but the rest are struck all of a heap.  Not to-night.  Give them time to get steady a bit if you want them to fight.”

He gave facts and opinions with a mixture of loyalty and mistrust.  His own state puzzled him exceedingly.  He couldn’t make out anything, he did not know what to believe and yet he had an impulsive desire, an inspired desire to help the man.  At times it appeared a necessity—­at others policy; between whiles a great folly, which perhaps did not matter because he suspected himself of being helpless anyway.  Then he had moments of anger.  In those moments he would feel in his pocket the butt of a loaded pistol.  He had provided himself with the weapon, when directed by Mrs. Travers to go on board the brig.

“If he wants to interfere with me, I’ll let drive at him and take my chance of getting away,” he had explained hurriedly.

He remembered how startled Mrs. Travers looked.  Of course, a woman like that—­not used to hear such talk.  Therefore it was no use listening to her, except for good manners’ sake.  Once bit twice shy.  He had no mind to be kidnapped, not he, nor bullied either.

“I can’t let him nab me, too.  You will want me now, Mrs. Travers,” he had said; “and I promise you not to fire off the old thing unless he jolly well forces me to.”

He was youthfully wise in his resolution not to give way to her entreaties, though her extraordinary agitation did stagger him for a moment.  When the boat was already on its way to the brig, he remembered her calling out after him: