“Sleep on the floor then.”
Bostock turned to the doctor, but the latter’s eye was averted, and he made no sign, nor spoke.
“All right,” growled the old sailor, and he turned to Carey. “I won’t snore more’n I can help, sir,” he said. “It aren’t my fault.”
“In with you all,” said the beachcomber, roughly; “and look here, I’m going to sit here a bit to finish my physic, so don’t come out and disturb me. My black pack used to come prowling round sometimes of a night, but they never do now.”
As he spoke he took out a revolver and cocked it, before laying it down beside his tumbler of spirits with a meaning look.
“Are we to consider ourselves prisoners, sir?” said the doctor, speaking at last.
“Dunno,” was the reply, shortly given. “All depends. If you ride the high horse I may tell my pack to set you ashore somewhere else, but if you’re civil—well, we shall see. Only just recollect this, and don’t argue. These are my islands all round here, and all that comes ashore’s mine. Now go to bed.”
He threw himself back in his chair and raised the glass to his lips, and without a word the three prisoners filed into the state-room, and the door swung to and clicked behind them.