"You, cook, there—ye're fired. Get off the boat. Yer kerriage waits," he cried down at the busy Filipo.
Filipo shuffled almost meekly toward the speaker. He saw the skiff alongside and Hicks and Owen nearby.
"Grab 'im," ordered the pirate. "Here's the irons." He produced a pair of rusty handcuffs that had been brought along, among other ominous-looking junk, to impress Pauline.
But Filipo was not "fired" yet. With a sudden long-distance lunge he knocked down the pirate, who, thought he was at a safe distance. But Hicks, who had been well schooled in street-fight tactics, thoughtfully stuck out a leg and tripped the cook, who fell upon the groaning Boyd. Boyd, though down, was by no means "out," and held Filipo tight while Owen and Hicks slipped on the handcuffs.
"Now to the boat with 'im an' dump 'im ashore wherever It looks hottest an' hungriest."
"Yah," he snarled in the face of the prostrate cook, "ye don't interfere no more with the capting of this here vessel. I hopes ye—"
But his sentence was cut short, or rather it ended in a shriek of pain and fright, as the cook, suddenly swinging himself from his shoulders, landed a terrifically propelled right foot in the pirate's middle.
He was pinned down again the next moment, but Boyd's yell had penetrated to the cabin.
"What is the matter—who is hurt?" cried Pauline, rushing to the group on deck.
"We have had to order this fellow put ashore. He has twice attacked
Boyd, and besides he is useless as a cook," explained Owen.