Carey nodded shortly.
“Hit the first as does in the mouth.”
“To be knocked down with a club,” said the boy, bitterly.
“No one dare touch you, my lad, unless I give ’em leave. I’m king here, I tell you, and the black dogs know it. Be off.”
“You hideous, red-eyed brute!” said the boy to himself, as he took his load and turned to go. “How I should like to—”
He did not mentally say what, for he was brought up short by the word “Stop!” roared in a bullying tone.
“Here, you,” cried the man to Bostock, “light a lanthorn; it’s dark on deck. Follow him, and hold it till he’s done. And look here, bring it away again, or they’ll be setting the ship afire. They can see in the dark like cats. They want no light.”
Bostock fetched a lanthorn, lit it in a surly way, and then went first, closely followed by Carey, who just caught sight of their captor pouring himself out a tumbler of rum from a half-emptied bottle; but there was no water near.
“Bob,” panted the boy, as they reached the deck, “are we going to put up with this?”
“Dunno yet, my lad,” growled the old sailor. “Not for long, I hope. Seems to me like me knocking that there red and white savage’s head off, and then blowing up the ship.”