“Was you talking ’bout the rope for yourself, Frenchy?—because they keep that round the yard-arm for thieves and pirates, not for honest men.”
“Pig—cochon!” yelled Jarette, and there was a flash of light and a sharp report as he fired a pistol to hit the sailor, or perhaps only to frighten us, for no harm was done.
“Silence, man, don’t exasperate him,” whispered a voice from close by where I sat, and I knew that if I raised my hand I could have touched Mr Frewen.
“All right, sir,” growled Bob, and Jarette spoke now.
“Below there,” he cried. “I’m behaving better to you than you all deserve. Some men would have pitched you all overboard to drown. Now then, listen you, Captain Berriman; you can row west and get into the line the packets take, or you can row east and make the coast somewhere, if you don’t get caught in a storm and go to the bottom. But that’s none of my doing, I can’t help that. Now then, push off before I alter my mind and have a bag of ballast pitched through the bottom of the boat. Off with you. Fasten up that gangway, my lads.”
“No, no, stop,” cried Mr Frewen, excitedly. “We are not all here,” and I glanced round, but it was too dark to make anything out below where the light of the lanterns was cast outward in quite a straight line, well defined against the blackness below, which looked solid.
“Not all there, doctor? Oh, I forgot,” said Jarette. “Wait a minute.”
He turned away from the side, and we heard him give some order, which was followed a minute later by a sharp shrill cry, which went through me, and then there was a series of frantic shrieks, which seemed to pierce the dark night air. We could hear a scuffling too, and appeal after appeal approaching the side from somewhere aft.
“Silence!” snapped out Jarette, and a sharp smack was followed by a low moan.
Then in loud hysterical tones, as if a hoarse frantic woman were appealing, I heard as I sat shuddering there—