“You call me a scoundrel, do you,” said he, levelling a pistol at my head.
“You call us scoundrels, do you,” cried the boy I have made mention of, and who was evidently the son of the captain, taking up another pistol in his hand. “Shall I shoot him, father?”
“No, Peleg; not yet; we will pay them all when we get in. Take him away, and put him in irons with the rest,” said the captain; and I was immediately dragged forward between decks through a door in the bulk-heads, where I found the Portuguese captain and three seamen already in irons.
“This is pretty treatment,” said he to me.
“Yes, it is, indeed,” replied I; “but I will make him smart for it when we arrive.”
“Shall we ever arrive?” said the Portuguese captain, looking at me and compressing his lips.
“I say, my man,” said I to the seaman who stood over us with a pistol and a cutlass, “who are you; and what are you? Tell us the truth: are you pirates?”
“I never was yet,” replied he, “nor do I mean to be; but our skipper says that you are, and that he knew you as soon as you came alongside. That’s all I can say about it.”
“Why, if we are pirates, as he says, and he recognizes us, he must have been in pirates’ company, that is clear.”
“Well; he may have been, for all I know,” replied the man. “I don’t consider him any very great things; but he is our captain, and we must obey orders.”