“Let them call it what they like, Jem. They treated us like dogs, and I will not stand it. I shall leave the ship first chance. You can do as you like, but that’s what I mean to do.”
“Oh, I shall do as you do, Mas’ Don. I was never meant for a sailor, and I shall get away as soon as I can.”
“Shall you?” said a voice that seemed familiar; and they both turned in the direction from which it came, to see a dark figure rise from beside the bulk head, where it had lain unnoticed by the invalids, though if they had noted its presence, they would have taken it for one of their fellow-sufferers.
“What’s it got to do with you?” said Jem, shortly, as he scowled at the man, who now came forward sufficiently near the dim light for them to recognise the grim, sinister-looking sailor, who had played so unpleasant a part at the rendez-vous where they were taken after being seized.
“What’s it got to do with me? Everything. So you’re goin’ to desert, both of you, are you? Do you know what that means?”
“No; nor don’t want,” growled Jem.
“Then I’ll tell you. Flogging, for sartain, and p’r’aps stringing up at the yard-arm, as an example to others.”
“Ho!” said Jem; “do it? Well, you look the sort o’ man as is best suited for that; and just you look here. Nex’ time I ketches you spying and listening to what I say, I shall give you a worse dressing down than I give you last time, so be off.”
“Mutinous, threatening, and talking about deserting,” said the sinister-looking sailor, with a harsh laugh, which sounded as if he had a young watchman’s rattle somewhere in his chest. “Nice thing to report. I think this will do.”
He went off rubbing his hands softly, and mounted the ladder, Jem watching him till his legs had disappeared, when he turned sharply to Don.