“Rather a good job he has, I take it,” said Ned with great complacency; “for he looked mighty vicious as he came down the ladder, as if he hadn’t half slaked his thirst for slaughter.”
The bloodhound seemed much concerned at the mishap that had occurred to its master. For a few seconds it stood and glared at us ferociously, as if convinced that we were in some way responsible for what had happened. Its bristles were erect upon its back, and, in the semi-darkness of the lower deck, its eyes glowed like red-hot coals, whilst blood oozed from its shred of a mutilated ear and dripped upon the deck. It flashed across my mind for a moment that the great beast was going to spring upon us like a tiger upon its prey, and that with our legs in irons we should be in a very awkward predicament; but to my immense relief the savage animal at that moment sat down beside its master, and throwing back its massive head with a jerk, gave vent to a loud and most pathetic howl.
“If that dogerwauling don’t bring some of the swabs tumbling down the hatchway, smash my top-lights if anything will!” observed Ned; “’tis the most onnatural shindy that ever I came across by a long chalk.”
My coxswain was right. The dog had just lifted his head for another ear-piercing howl, when a confused hubbub of voices was heard at the top of the hatchway, and the next moment Miguel and two or three other swarthy fellows came rushing down the ladder in a reckless manner, evidently very perturbed in mind.
They were all talking at once, vociferating at the top of their voices, and gesticulating wildly. All were armed, and bore unmistakable traces of the late fray.
“Your boss has fainted from loss of blood, I reckon,” said Ned, pointing out the chief’s motionless recumbent form to Miguel. “He suddenly fell down as if he had been shot.”
Miguel made some surly rejoinder, the meaning of which we did not catch. Then he made a sign to his comrades, and together they stooped and raised their leader’s apparently lifeless body, and bore it swiftly up the companion ladder, closely followed by the bloodhound.
“I wonder if he’s dead,” I remarked in an awestruck voice as soon as they were out of sight. “He may have suffered from heart disease, and the excitement of the battle may have brought on an attack.”
“That’s possible,” said Mr. Triggs; “but it’s much more likely to be the effect of the wound in his head, which, I expect, was more serious than he thought.”
Soon after this occurrence Miguel brought us some breakfast of coffee and brown bread. As the reader may suppose, we did our best to wheedle some information out of him; but he was even more taciturn than usual, and would not deign to respond to our questions.