“Sha’n’t!” snapped the first-mate; and as he raged and stormed Mark felt more than ever that this was the real captain of the ship, and that his father must occupy a very secondary position.
“I would work so hard,” said the poor fellow piteously. “I only want to get into another country and try again.”
“At our owner’s expense, eh? Do you think the crew here want you?”
“No, no,” rose in chorus; and Mark’s heart gave a leap of sympathy, and anger against the men.
“There, you hear, you idle, cheating vagabond. Where did you want to go?”
“Anywhere, sir, anywhere. Do let me go!”
“Yes, to the police station. You’ll have to answer for all this.”
Mark looked at the poor, wretched, piteous face, and then up at the mate, whose countenance was like cast-iron with the tip of his nose red-hot. He glanced at Mr Morgan, who was frowning and looked annoyed, but who smiled at Mark as their eyes met.
“Here, Billy Widgeon, fetch one of the dock police,” cried the first-mate.
“Ay, ay, sir,” cried the little sailor with alacrity; and he was in the act of starting, while the stowaway was once more appealing piteously and Mark was about to take his part, when a quiet firm voice said aloud: