It was now dark; but suddenly the little schooner was the center of a dazzling light and a shot rang out over the water. Dimly, could be made out the outlines of a battle cruiser. A second shot rang out—a command to heave-to.
“Quick!” cried one of the mutineers, apparently the leader of the gang. “We must make a run for it. Tie this dog up and throw him below!”
Swiftly Frank was bound hand and foot and tumbled down the hatchway. In falling the knot that bound his feet became unloosened and he freed his legs with little difficulty. But try as he would he could not release his hands. He made his way to his bunk and lay down.
“What’s the matter?” came the voice of the man in the bunk.
Frank explained matters to him.
“Good!” was the reply. “They can’t get away from the cruiser. It is undoubtedly a British ship.”
But both were doomed to disappointment. A heavy wind had sprung up and now was blowing a gale. With all sails set, the little schooner soon lost itself in the darkness, and when morning dawned there was not the sign of a sail as far as the eye could see.
CHAPTER III.
JACK TEMPLETON.
Jack Templeton stood in a shady grove in a little hamlet on the north coast of Africa. A lad of seventeen, he was the only white person in the village, or in fact for many miles around. He had come there with his father five years before.
His father’s reasons for thus practically burying himself alive, Jack did not know. He had started up a little store and had made a bare living selling goods to the natives. Twice a year a ship brought him stock enough for the ensuing six months, but except at these rare intervals, a white man was seldom seen in the village.