“I’m sick ob dis business. I hab quarreled wid Redvig an’ Brazzier, an’ I want to jine you an’ git away from dis place.”
Abe Storms was not deceived for a moment by this transparent story. He knew there had been no quarrel, but that the mutineers had planned to get the negro on the schooner with the hope of deceiving the captain and gaining a chance to overpower him when off his guard.
“Come on out here, then,” replied the mate, who quickly determined his course of action.
Almost at the same instant a loud splash was heard, and the head of Pomp was descried in the moonlight, swimming toward the boat. The mate kept himself concealed as much as he could, stepping back when the negro began clambering up the fore-chains. Panting from his exertion, he speedily came over the gunwale upon the deck.
“Yes, cap’in, I’s tired ob dem willains, an’ I’m gwine–––Oh! oh! oh!”
At that instant his eyes fell upon the figure of the mate, clad in his diving-armor, with the exception of his face, which was so clearly revealed in the moonlight that there could be no mistaking his identity.
Worse than that, the mate, standing as rigid as iron, had a gleaming revolver pointed straight at him. Pomp sank on his knees in the most abject terror.
“Oh, my heben!” he chattered, clasping his hands, “I t’ought dat you was drowned. Am you sartin dat you ain’t?”
“I am quite well satisfied on that point. But, Pomp, get up; I’ve got a word or two to say to you.”