“What’s to be done?” said Mr Preddle, mildly. “Hadn’t you better speak to them, Mr Brymer?”
“I feel as if I can only speak by deputy,” he replied, and he raised his pistol,—“by this. But I don’t like firing until the last extremity.”
“I’ll speak to them,” said Mr Frewen.
“Very well; but get well out of reach. They will not be so merciful as we are.”
Mr Frewen went round to the bow-side of the hatch, and shouted loudly to those in the forecastle, with the result that the chopping ceased, and after a few moments’ delay Jarette’s voice was heard.
“You surrender then, eh?” he shouted. “Look sharp and knock off these boards.”
Mr Brymer could not help laughing aloud, and a pistol was fired in his direction.
“Stop that!” shouted Mr Frewen. “Look here, my men, if you hand out your weapons through the top of the hatch, and promise not to attempt to escape, food and water shall be passed down, and you shall receive fair treatment till we get into port.”
“Do you hear, my lads?” cried Jarette, loudly. “And when we get in port they’ll hand us over as prisoners. What do you—there, I’ll say it for you,” he continued hastily. “No, no, no! And now listen to me, all you who can hear. You can’t sail into port without us, and you are only proposing a truce because you are growing frightened.”
“Indeed!” said Mr Frewen, coolly.