Half blind, almost dead, the boy came toward him, and fell at his feet, clasping his hands and holding them up in dumb, pitiful entreaty, for the voice was dead within him, and his pale lips uttered moans instead of words.
"Ha! you have come to, have you?" exclaimed the mate, taking the cigar from his mouth, and winding a loose fragment of tobacco leaf around it. "I thought as much. Well, never mind, the music's nearly half over now—then your turn shall come."
Those little hands dropped, and the child fell forward on his face; a faint quiver which followed each crack of the lash was all the sign of life he gave.
CHAPTER VII.
A REBELLIOUS SPIRIT.
The threat of violence which Thrasher uttered against the delicate creature at his feet, might have been only an ebullition of his dormant hatred of the boy—the bitterest and most deadly hatred known to humanity—that of a bad man for the object he has wronged; but wanton or earnest, the threat had its effect, for Rice strode to Thrasher's side, and bending to his ear, whispered.
"I say, captain, we've had enough of this ere, I reckon. Jest order the men to unsling that nigger, or I will."
Thrasher took the cigar from his mouth, and held it smoking between his fingers.
"What's the meaning of this, Rice?" he said, mildly, knocking the loose ashes away with his little finger, as he eyed the seaman with a keen side glance.
"What I said afore; we've had enough of flogging for one day, at any rate."