"Don't move! Don't budge an inch, or you're a case for eels, you thief!"
"Make catfish bait of him at once!" yelled the second.
"Don't move," cried the third, "don't move, you possum, or you're giblets, instanter!"
But these injunctions scarcely seemed necessary, for, even had the captive been so inclined, he neither possessed the power nor opportunity to move a limb.
"Haul him out," cried one.
"Yes, lug him into our boat," said another; "so now, you skunk, lay still; don't open your trap, or I'll brain you on sight!"
Having transferred the body of the captive from his "own canoe" to theirs, the Mills-Pointers made fast the stranger's dug-out, and then paddled for the landing. The pirate was duly hauled ashore, or on to the wharf-boat, and left under guard of one of the captors—a dreadful ugly-looking customer, a cross between a whiskey-cask, bowie-knife, and a Seminole Indian or bull-dog, and armed equal to an arsenal—while the other two went up to the nearest "grocery," reported the capture, took a drink, and sent out word for Court to meet. The poor victim was deposited on his back across some barrels, with his hands tied behind him. Recovering his scattered senses, the pirate "waked up."
"Look here, my virtuous friend," said he to his body-guard, who sat on an opposite barrel, with a heavy pistol in his hand, "what's all this about?"
"Shet up!" responded the guard; "shet up your gourd. You'll know what's up, pooty soon, you ugly cuss, you!"
"Well, that's explicit, anyhow!" coolly continued the captive. "But all I want to know, is—am I to be robbed, killed off, or only initiated into the mysteries of your craft?"