“I will go to the captain!” returned Jack. “I’m not going to stand for any such treatment any longer!”
“And I’m with you!” broke in Randy. “Come on, let’s arm ourselves!”
The boys were thoroughly aroused, and each looked around the forecastle for something which might be used as a weapon.
“Take my advice and go slow, you kids,” growled one of the sailors. “The cap’n and Ferguson and Letts go well heeled, and they’d jest as lief fill you full of holes as not. You’ve seen a little roughness so far, but you haven’t seen nothin’ of what might happen if you got those men worked up. The cap’n won’t stop at nothin’ when he’s roused up.”
Nevertheless, the boys left the forecastle, each armed with a stick or a spike, or whatever came to hand.
Just as they came on deck they ran into Ira Small. The lanky sailor looked at the weapons they carried, and then shook his head dubiously.
“Don’t you do it. Throw them clubs away,” he whispered hoarsely. “If you start a fight you’ll git the worst of it and spile everything. Take a meek-like way. Pretend you ain’t got no backbone—that you’re scared stiff—and then maybe we’ll git a chance to outwit ’em. I know how I can git some grub and the gasoline you want,” he went on impressively. Then, as he saw the mate approaching, he hurried back to where he had been busy coiling up some ropes.
“What’s the meaning of this?” demanded the mate, coming to a halt and eyeing the clubs and other things the boys carried.
“We were robbed last night, and we want to know who did it,” answered Jack, coldly.