The cook writhed and screamed, as every
stroke raised bloody ridges on his back; but Blogg enjoyed it. He
was in no hurry. He was like a boy who had found a sweet morsel, and
was turning it over in his mouth to enjoy it the longer. After each
blow he looked at the three seamen standing near, and at the man at
the helm, and made little speeches at them. "I'll show you who is
master aboard this ship." Whack! "That's what every man Jack of you
will get if you give me any of your jaw." Whack! "Maybe you'd like
to mutiny, wouldn't you?" Whack! The blows came down with
deliberate regularity; the cook's back was blue, black, and bleeding,
but the captain showed no sign of any intention to stay his hand.
The suffering victim's cries seemed to inflame his cruelty. He was a
wild beast in the semblance of a man. At last, in his extreme agony,
the cook made a piteous appeal to the seamen:
[ILLUSTRATION 2]
"Mates, are you men? Are you going to stand there all day, and watch
me being flogged to death for nothing?"
Before the next stroke fell the three men had seized the captain; but
he fought with so much strength and fury that they found it difficult
to hold him. The helmsman steadied the tiller with two turns of the
rope and ran forward to assist them. They laid Blogg flat on the
deck, but he kept struggling, cursing, threatening, and calling on
the mate to help him; but that officer took fright, ran to his cabin
in the deckhouse, and began to barricade the door.
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