“I’ll order you over the side, and set you ashore at the nearest point of land.”
“Not you, skipper. It would be like committing murder, and raise up international difficulties.”
“I don’t care, sir; I’ll do it. You’ve got the wrong man to deal with if you think you’re going to play any of your Yankee tricks with David Banes. Here, Dellow, heave-to and man the big boat.”
“Good ten miles to the shore,” said the first mate in a low remonstrant tone of voice.
“I don’t care if it’s twenty. I said I wouldn’t take him as a passenger, and I won’t.”
“Ten miles for your chaps to pull in the dark, and ten miles back,” said the American coolly: “that’s twenty, and say another ten miles as allowance for currents, which run strong, I’ve heard say. That’s thirty miles. Say, skipper, hadn’t you better take it coolly and make the best of it?”
“No, sir, I had not.”
“But I have made up my mind to sail with you, skipper, for I reckon I shall like this trip.”
“And I reckon you will not,” said the captain grimly. “You’re very sharp, sir, but you’ve cut yourself this time, and you’re going to be rowed ashore as soon as it’s light.”
“Hah, that’s better, skipper. Your lads couldn’t do it in the dark, and they’d never find the brig again.”