“Coward, am I?” cried Vince, as he sprang up and dashed at his assailant, with fists clenched and everything forgotten now but the blow. He did not strike out, though, in return, for an arm was thrown across his chest and a gruff voice growled out,—
“Are we to let ’em have it out, Capen Jarks?”
“No; mais I sink zey might have von leetle rights. Non, non, non! You do not vant to fight now, mes enfans; you have somesings else to sink. You feel like a big coward?”
“No, I don’t,” said Vince, to whom the words were addressed: “I’ll let him see if you’ll make this man let go.”
“Non, non, non!” said the captain, raising his hand to tug at one of the rings in his ears. “You do not vant to fight. Let me see.”
He began to feel the muscles of Vince’s arms, and nodded as if with satisfaction.
“It seem a pity to finish off a boy like you. I sink you vould make a good sailor and a fine smugglaire on my sheep. Perhaps I sall not kill you.”
“Bah!” cried Vince, looking him full in the face. “Do you think I’m such a little child as to be frightened by what you say?”
“Leetle schile? Non, non. Vous êtes un brave garçon—a big, brave boy. Zere, you sall not fight like you Anglais bouledogues, and vat you call ze game coq. You comprends, mon enfant.”
“Then you’d better take him away,” cried Vince, who was effervescing with wrath against his companion.