“That is for Captain Jarette to decide,” replied the voice, one which made me writhe as I looked from one to the other, wondering whether they recognised who was speaking.
“Captain Jarette!” cried our sturdy old officer, furiously. “Look here, sir, don’t you insult me by calling that French scoundrel by such a title. And look here, are you making this announcement of your own free will, or are you forced by that contemptible mongrel knave to deliver his insolent message?”
“There is no compulsion, captain, and no need for you to call names, without you wish to be punished for your insolence. I am Captain Jarette, sir, and this is my good ship, these are my good brave men. Brave enfans—do you hear, bons enfans. This lad is my young lieutenant, who, like the rest, was sick of the vagaries of such a tyrannical old wretch as you.”
“You dog!” growled the captain, furiously.
“Yes, dog, sir, so don’t tease me into biting, or I may use my teeth sharply.”
“You, Walters,” cried the captain, “listen, boy—why are you with these men? Are you a prisoner?”
There was silence for a space before Walters said sharply, as if some one had made a threatening gesture close to his head—
“No, I am not a prisoner.”
“But you have not joined these mutinous scoundrels, sir?” cried the captain, and his voice sounded quite plaintive.
Walters made no reply.