The little fellow staggered back and uttered a faint cry, but in an instant the dignity of blood aroused itself even in that childish heart. He stood up bravely, pride of race sparkling through his tears.
"I am not a slave, and you have struck me."
The mate laughed.
"Well done, my little bantam rooster, give us another fling."
The boy's face flamed red under the insulting laugh.
"I am only a little boy; besides, papa says gentlemen never fight with their fists, so if I were a man it would be all the same—but Jube can fight like you—he knows how—yes, I'll call Jube."
"Not till I've knocked all the infernal pride out of your little body," exclaimed Thrasher, starting up and making a dash at the boy.
He was too late. The little fellow had cleared the cabin stairs with the leap of a fawn, and rushing across the deck where Jube was standing, seized him by the garments.
"Jube, good Jube, you can fight—that man down-stairs wants you—he struck me here on my face, the very spot my mother kissed—with his hands so—he struck me."
There was no need for the boy to say this, for three blood red finger marks glowed like living fire across his delicate cheek.