He did not particularly want the whisky, but it angered him to hear Mart order it taken from him.

Away back in his mind where reason had gone into hiding, Casey knew that some great injustice was being done him; that he, Casey Ryan, was not the man they were calmly taking it for granted that he was.
With the bottle in his hand he rose and walked unsteadily to his bunk.
He did not like this man they called the boss.

He remembered that in his bunk, under the bedding, he had concealed something that would make him the equal of them all.

He fumbled under the blankets, found what he sought and with his back turned to the others he slipped the thing into his sling out of sight.
Mart and Joe were talking together by the table, paying no attention to Casey, who was groggily making up his mind to crawl into his bunk and take another sleep.

He still meant to have it out with Mart, but he did not feel like tackling the job just now.
Mart turned to the door and Joe got up to follow him, with a careless glance over his shoulder at Casey, who was lifting a foot as if it weighed a great deal, and was groping with it in the air trying to locate the edge of the lower bunk.