“I count four of ’em,” he said slowly. “Looks like they’re coming right for us.”
They were. Very soon a shot whistled over the nightcap of Mr. Marks, who had thrust his head from his cabin with that sense of something amiss peculiar to shipboard.
“Heave back the tops’ls,” growled the master.
The sails flatted down, and the ship came to. She was quickly circled by Blackbeard’s fleet. The skull grinned amiably at them as the black flag stood out tautly in the wind. Somebody shouted something from the pirate ships; and the merchant captain ordered the boat lowered, and with two of the crew to row him set off for the marauding flagship.
“I’ve been pirated in these waters twenty times,” grumbled the captain, steering with an oar, “so I know what they want.”
The pirates wanted everything. They put a prize crew over on the captured brig. Mr. Marks was paged.
“Mistah Blackbeard’s compliments, suh,” grinned a big black fellow, looking coy in a hat made of a twisted red silk handkerchief, “and if you be Mistah Marks, suh, will you be so ’bliging as to step over to his ship.”
Mr. Marks, with pallid face, looked pathetically at Mr. Wragg, whose sympathy was again subjected to a heavy sight draft.
“Why didn’t he send for you, Wragg?” he complained unheroically. “You’re a councilor—you’ve got the precedence.”
Mr. Wragg patted him on the shoulder encouragingly.