Cunningham did not answer immediately. From Flint his glance went roving
from man to man, as if trying to read what they expected of him.

"Flint, you were recommended to me for your knowledge of the Sulu lingo.
We'll need a crew of divers, and we'll have to pick them up secretly.
That's your job. It's your only job outside doing your watch with the
shovel below. Somehow you've got the wrong idea. You think this is a
junket of the oil-lamp period. All wrong! You don't know me, and that's a
pity; because if you did know something about me you'd walk carefully.
When we're off this yacht, I don't say. If you want what old-timers used
to call their pannikin of rum, you'll be welcome to it. But on board the
Wanderer, nothing doing. Get your duffel out. I'll have a look at it."

"Get it yourself," said Flint.

Cunningham appeared small and boyish beside the ex-beachcomber.

"I'm speaking to you decently, Flint, when I ought to bash in your head."

The tone was gentle and level.

"Why don't you try it?"

The expectant men thereupon witnessed a feat that was not only deadly in
its precision but oddly grotesque. Cunningham's right hand flew out with
the sinister quickness of a cobra's strike, and he had Flint's brawny
wrist in grip. He danced about, twisted and lurched until he came to an
abrupt stop behind Flint's back. Flint's mouth began to bend at the
corners--a grimace.