“The gibbet’s on the low point by the mangrove swamp,” said the man. “They’ve cut down two palms about a dozen feet and nailed another across, and the captain’s swinging there.”
“A lie!” yelled Jack; “not my brother!”
There was a dead pause of utter silence for a few moments, and then the man said slowly:
“Yes, we all saw it and made sure;” and a murmur of acquiescence arose from his three companions, who had been in the boat in search of far different information to that which they had brought.
“But not my brother?” groaned Jack.
“Yes,” said the man. “It was Commodore Junk.”
As a dead silence once more fell upon the poop, the dark, heavy-looking man stood swaying to and fro for a few minutes, gazing down at Jack, who had dropped into a sitting position upon a water-keg, his arms resting upon his knees, his hands hanging, and his head drooped; while Bart stood by his shoulder with his face wrinkled and a pained expression upon his brow, just illumined by the bright glint of the stars.
The heavy man nodded and seemed about to speak, but remained silent for a time. Then patting Jack on the shoulder:
“Brave lad! Good captain! For time of war!” he said. “But never mind, my lads. We’ll pay them for it, yet.”
He lurched slightly and walked slowly toward the captain’s cabin, unnoticed by Jack and Bart; but Dinny’s eyes were sharp enough to read what all this meant, and he turned to his comrade Dick.