“Then you’d trust him?” said Vince.
Mike nodded.
“Then I wouldn’t. He’d jump up, strong as ever, and pitch us overboard, or take us over to France, or do something. I’m not going to untie a knot.”
“Oh, Master Vince,” groaned the old fellow; “and after all the fish I’ve give you, and the things I’ve done!”
“Including trying to drown me,” said Vince.
“Oh, Master Mike, you have got a ’art in yer,” groaned Daygo. “You try an’ persuade him, sir. Don’t take me ashore and give me up.”
“Look, Mike,” said Vince excitedly, as a white puff of smoke suddenly appeared from the bows of the cutter, followed shortly by another, showing that they had got within range of the schooner, and the firing was kept up steadily as the boat sailed on, fast nearing the shore now, where the cliff was dotted with the people attracted by the engagement.
But the firing did not interest Daygo, who kept on pleading and protesting and begging to be forgiven to one who seemed to have thoroughly hardened his heart.
Then the old man made an effort to wriggle himself into a sitting position, but a light tap with the conger bat sent him down.
“Don’t you move again,” said Vince sternly; “and don’t you say another word, or you’ll make your case worse than ever.”