Some were cast overboard immediately; but those whose wounds gave some hope of recovery, were, for the moment, more mercifully dealt with.
For they were reserved for after tortures!
Tim was in an unfortunate position.
He was neither dead nor wounded.
But from the passing remarks of the Skeleton Crew, he almost wished that he had been dead, for he trembled to think what tortures and unearthly agony they intended to make all such as he was, undergo.
“What an unlucky devil I am,” sighed Tim. “I no sooner get out of one trouble than I fall into another; it’s out of the frying pan into the fire with me always. I wonder what star I was born under, for there’s no good fortune ever befalls me. Heigho! just hear those grim monsters talking. Why, the smugglers were gentlemen, compared to such fiendish devils as these.”
Tim crouched still more closely in his hiding-place.
“How many dead men have the smugglers left behind?” asked Death-wing, when they had all been counted and thrown overboard.
“Over a dozen,” was the reply.
“Good,” said Death-wing, with a chuckle.