“My black pack haven’t worried you, then?” said the man, with a grin which showed two or three yellow teeth. “I began to think they’d eaten you raw, as you didn’t come back. There, I don’t want to starve you; get below and have your supper along with your mate. I’ve half done mine.”
They went into the saloon, to find the doctor waiting for them with some food ready at one end of the table, while at the other the beachcomber’s stood, consisting of a ship’s biscuit and about half of the bottle of rum, which he had taken possession of before they came back.
“Get your prog, my lads, and then go to sleep. And look here, don’t you either of you try any games, or maybe you won’t see daylight again.”
As may be supposed, the trio had not much appetite for their suppers, but they made pretence of eating, and saw that their captor was watching them all the time, sipping his neat rum and nibbling a little of the hard biscuit, which he softened a little at times by dipping it in his rum glass.
“Now then,” he said at last, “is that your cabin?”
“It is mine,” said the doctor.
“All right. Go in then, all three of you.”
“I don’t sleep here,” growled Bostock. “I’ve got a bunk below.”
“You’ll go in there,” said the man, fiercely.
“But there aren’t room.”