Vince nodded, and Mike drew a deep breath.
“Don’t look like that,” whispered Vince; “here’s Jacques coming to ask us why we don’t help.”
But they were wrong, for the captain took them each by the shoulder, his hands tightening with a heavy grip, which seemed to suggest that he could hold them much harder if he liked; and in this way he marched them before him to the cabin-hatch.
“Down vis you!” he said. “To-day you sall be vis me; to-morrow vis ze crew.”
“Aren’t you going to let us go back to-morrow?” said Vince quickly.
“Non! Go down.”
That first word was French, but any one would have understood what it meant—the tone was sufficient.
The boys gave a sharp look round the little cabin, which was plain enough, with its lockers for seats, and narrow table, which just afforded room for the three who entered the place.
“Sit,” said the captain shortly; and, directly after, “Mangez—eat. You do not understand—comprends—ze Français?”
“We do—a little,” said Mike.