These three parties had arranged themselves in natural sequence.

The mutineers, headed by Gabbett, Vetch, and the Moocher, were nearest to the door; the timid--boys, old men, innocent poor wretches condemned on circumstantial evidence, or rustics condemned to be turned into thieves for pulling a turnip--were at the farther end, huddling together in alarm; and the prudent--that is to say, all the rest, ready to fight or fly, advance or retreat, assist the authorities or their companions, as the fortune of the day might direct--occupied the middle space.

The mutineers proper numbered, perhaps, some thirty men, and of these thirty only half a dozen knew what was really about to be done.
The ship's bell strikes the half-hour, and as the cries of the three sentries passing the word to the quarter-deck die away, Gabbett, who has been leaning with his back against the door, nudges Jemmy Vetch.
"Now, Jemmy," says he in a whisper, "tell 'em!" The whisper being heard by those nearest the giant, a silence ensues, which gradually spreads like a ripple over the surface of the crowd, reaching even the bunks at the further end.
"Gentlemen," says Mr.Vetch, politely sarcastic in his own hangdog fashion, "myself and my friends here are going to take the ship for you.
Those who like to join us had better speak at once, for in about half an hour they will not have the opportunity." He pauses, and looks round with such an impertinently confident air, that three waverers in the party amidships slip nearer to hear him.
"You needn't be afraid," Mr.Vetch continues, "we have arranged it all for you.

There are friends waiting for us outside, and the door will be open directly.

All we want, gentlemen, is your vote and interest--I mean your--" "Gaffing agin!" interrupts the giant angrily.