“Yes, sir; and if we hadn’t got to him he’d have been a dead man in a few hours; and a good job too, only see what a nuisance he would have been.”
“How came you to do this, sir?” cried Captain Strong, turning to the man, who still crouched upon the deck.
“I wanted to get abroad, sir. Pray forgive me this time.”
“You must have been mad,” cried the captain. “Did you want to be buried alive?”
“No, sir. I didn’t think you’d fill up above me, and I thought I could creep out by and by; but—but they stopped up both ends of the hole, and then—then they piled up the boxes over my head, and it got so hot, sir, that—that—I could hardly breathe, and—and—and, sir, I couldn’t bear it, I was obliged to cry for help; but I wish I’d died in my hole.”
“Poor wretch!” muttered the captain; but his son heard him and pressed nearer to his side, as he gazed at the stowaway, a man grown, but who was sobbing hysterically, and crying like a woman.
“Here, Widgeon, I told you to fetch one of the dock police,” said the first-mate fiercely.
“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Billy Widgeon, and Mark’s heart sank as he felt that his father was only secondary in power to the fierce red-nosed mate. But the next instant a thrill of satisfaction shot through him, for his father said in a calm, firm way:
“Stop!”
“Ah, we’ll soon set him right,” said the mate; “a miserable, snivelling cur!”