"A good thrashing would do the lad no harm," he muttered.
"Thrashing's too good for him," grumbled Whiterock, all his kind feeling for Cyril having changed to bitter dislike.
"Boy, come here," cried the Captain.
Cyril went up to him. He was very pale now, and trembling. He did not feel at all brave as he clasped his hands nervously together. It was terrible to feel that he stood alone, unarmed, helpless in the midst of all these men.
The Captain looked searchingly at him. "Your name, lad?" he demanded in stern tones.
"Cyril Morton," answered the boy.
"Cyril! A girl's name! Pooh!"
With a sudden change of mood the Captain laughed derisively. He passed his big, rough hand over the boy's soft curly hair and down his slim young figure.
"All the same," he said, "I like you, boy, and believe that we can make a man of you yet. After all, I will repeat my offer. Will you stay and be my son?"
Cyril shook his head. He could not speak at the moment, for the right words would not come. Was he to go through the ordeal again?