“Will you be quiet, boy?” cried Sydney, almost angrily now.
“Sit up, you swab,” roared the boatswain; and Pan started into a sitting position on the instant. “You, Rogers, go up to the stores and get me three foot o’ rope, thickest you can find.—Look ye here, Panny-mar,” he continued, rolling up his sleeve and holding out his enormous fist close to the boy’s nose, “see that?”
“Yes, father.”
“You turned yerself into a stowaway and comed ashore without leave; you’ve been turning yerself into a bear and a monkey, and living in the holes o’ the rocks by day, and coming out and stealing the prog by night.”
“I was so hungry, father,” whispered Pan, who forgot his wound.
“Yah! hungry indeed! And then you’ve been giving your father the worsest quarter of a hour he ever had in his life, and making his heart bust with haggerny. You shammed dead at first, then you made believe as you was hurt, when there was nothing the matter with yer but a little bit of a hole through one arm.”
“Oh!” moaned Pan, turning his eyes upon his white arm, where a bead of blood was visible.
“And then you kicked out as if all your upper rigging was shattered with chain-shot, and every kick went right through me. So now, look here: your young captain’s going to bandage that there bit o’ nothing up, and if you give so much as one squeak, you’ll have my fist fust and the rope’s-end arter till you dance such a hornpipe as never was afore.”
“Oh!” moaned Pan.
“Ah!”