“Unless your messmate, Walters, had constituted himself captain, and carried on the war.”
“He!” I cried contemptuously. “Why, I’d go and fetch him out by one ear the same as a dog or a pig out of a drove. I believe, sir, that he is a regular coward and sneak.”
“Ah, well, we shall see,” replied Mr Frewen, “but I suppose that I really ought to have shot down that ruffian, broken one of his legs say, and then spent six months in curing him ready for a judge and jury to punish.”
“But look here, Mr Frewen,” I said, “isn’t it all a mad and stupid thing for that man to do?”
“Worse than mad, my boy, for what can they do if they keep us down, and carry this vessel into port, which I doubt their ability to do?”
“Oh, they can do that,” I said quickly. “Bob Hampton is such a capital sailor.”
“A capital scoundrel,” he cried hotly, “and if I have a chance I’ll pitch him overboard.”
“No, you won’t, Mr Frewen,” I said, laughing; “I don’t believe that.”
“Well, Dale, I’m afraid that if I did, I should want a boat lowered down to pick him up, and go in it myself. There, as you say, it is a mad thing for the men to have done. It shows how a whole party can be carried away by the specious arguments of one scoundrel. However, we know our duty, my lad; and that is to re-take the ship, place the worst of the men in irons, and make the others navigate the vessel, unless you advocate our hanging the worst of them instead of putting them in irons.”
“There are no irons on board a ship like this,” I said quietly.