“Then arrest the ringleader.”
“Which is him, sir?”
“That man,” cried Terry, pointing with his dirk to Rogers, one of the smart young fellows who had been Syd’s companion in the morning. “Bring him here. Oh, if I had a file of marines!”
“Which you arn’t got,” muttered Strake, as he strode back to where the men were together.
“Here you, Ike Rogers,” he said; “I arrests you for mutiny.”
“No, no,” growled the men together.
“All right, messmates,” said Rogers, laughing. “Can’t put us in irons, for there arn’t none.”
“Come on,” said Strake, clapping him on the shoulder. “Mr Terry wants you.”
“What for?” said Rogers, eyeing the middy’s dirk; “to pick my teeth?”
In the midst of a burst of laughter the boatswain marched the man up to where Terry was, strutting and fuming about.