"Gone? My mates gone? Hey, Dailey! Birch! Yorke! Where are you, mates?"
The terror and consternation on his face sobered the boys instantly. He tried to get up, the veins standing out on his forehead, his eyes straining frantically, but Mart swiftly pushed him back and faced him. Helpless though the old man was in his heavily-weighted diving suit, there was something terrible in his aspect that made both boys feel a sudden fear of his unleashed fury.
"Sit back there," ordered Mart peremptorily. "No use calling for your mates, Jerry. They can't help you now, and you're in for it."
"Eh?" Jerry stared up, his face working horribly, his fingers twining and untwining. "You—you've killed 'em? You've killed poor old Borden, lad, and Dailey—and Birch—"
Mart could stand it no longer.
"No, nobody's killed, Jerry," he said kindly, sympathizing with the old man's terrible agitation. "We've marooned your men on the island, and they're helpless and unarmed. The Seamew belongs to us now, and I think it'll be best for all concerned that you go in irons. We can't trust you, Jerry, and that's flat."
Slowly the old quartermaster comprehended his defeat. A look of anguish flitted across his face, his eyes lost their keen sharpness and became old and bleared once more, and with a groan he lowered his head on his breast and his white hair fell around his features in the sunlight.
Mart caught a pitying glance from Bob, but he knew too well that Jerry was not to be trusted, and drew his chum aside to the ladder.
"Look here, Holly," he whispered earnestly, "we can't get soft-hearted now. Jerry ain't half as simple as he looks, take it from me. We got our work cut out for us, too. Your dad's over there in the jungle, remember, and them Malays have got 'most all the crew pris'ners. That's goin' to be a mighty hard nut for us to crack. We've got to put Jerry in irons, that's all."
Bob nodded, his eyes roving over the water.