“Where—where am I?” he said in a hoarse whisper; and then he uttered a wild cry and started up in a sitting position, for Bruff had touched his cheek with his cold nose.
“Where are you! On the deck of the Black Petrel, my lad, and you’re just going to have that dirty shirt stripped off your back, ready for a good rope’s-ending.”
“No, no! no, no!” cried the poor wretch, grovelling at the first-mate’s feet, and looking up at him appealingly.
This was too much for Bruff, who set up a fierce bark, and seeing his new friend apparently attacked he would have seized the crouching man had not Mark dropped down and seized his collar.
“Not do it, eh! You scoundrel! what do you mean by this hiding down in that hold and giving us hours of work to get out your wretched carcass, eh?”
“Please, sir—forgive me, sir. Let me off this time, sir.”
“Kick the poor wretch out of the ship and let him go,” said the second-mate in a low voice.
“Let him go! Not I. I’m going to flog him and then hand him over to the police.”
“Ay, ay,” rose in chorus from the men, who, now that they had with all respect to humanity saved the interloper’s life, were quite ready to see him punished for his wrong-doing, and the trouble and extra labour he had caused.
“There, you idle vagabond, you hear what the jury of your own countrymen say.”