“I won’t,” said Vince sturdily: “you are a coward to tie up two boys like this.”
The black wrath in the Frenchman’s face at these words made Mike shiver, and he pressed closer to Vince as the pistol was raised once more.
“Don’t—don’t,” he whispered. “Say something: we are so helpless.”
“Aha! I hear vat he say. Yais, you apologise me, sare.”
“I won’t,” said Vince, who, with nerves strung by the agony he felt at his wrists, which were being cut into by the cord, was ready to dare and say anything.
“You vill not?” cried the captain, slowly uncocking the pistol, as his face resumed its ordinary aspect.
“No, I—will—not!” cried Vince. “Put it away. You dare not fire.”
“Non; it would be a pity. I nevaire like to shoot good stuff. You are a brave boy, and I vill make you a fine man. And you too, mon garçon.”
He laid his hands on the boys’ shoulders, and pressed them hard, smiling as he said,—
“Non, I sink I am not a coward, mon enfant, but I tie you bose up vis ze hant behint, so you sall not run avay. Aha! Eh? You not run avay vis ze hant, mais vis ze foot? Eh bien: n’importe: it does not mattaire. You ugly boy,” he continued, striking Vince a sharp rap in the chest with the back of the hand, “I like you. Yais. You have saucy tongue. You are a bouledogue boy. I vill see you two ’ave a fight some days. Now, my lad, take zem bose into ze boat. Ah, yah, bête cochon—big peegue!” he roared, as he examined the way in which the boys’ wrists were tied behind their backs. “I tell you to lash zem fast. I did not say, ‘Cut off ze hant.’ Cast zem off.”