Another of the trio, in whose veins ran God alone knows what Semitic, Babylonish and Latin strains, gave a warning signal.

Oh, nothing so crass as a wink or a nod.

I almost doubted that I had intercepted it, and yet I knew he had communicated a warning to his fellows.

More a shade of expression that had crossed his eyes, or a glint in them of sudden light--or whatever it was, it carried the message.
"Murphy," the other answered the mate.
"Sir!" Mr.Pike snarled at him.
Murphy shrugged his shoulders in token that he did not understand.

It was the poise of the man, of the three of them, the cool poise that impressed me.
"When you address any officer on this ship you'll say 'sir,'" Mr.Pike explained, his voice as harsh as his face was forbidding.