Tomatl’s Promise.
“Wonder whether Mike ever had a taste of this sort o’ thing, Mas’ Don,” said Jem, after they had sat in silence some time, Don’s face not inviting any attempt at conversation. “He never said anything about being in irons when he spun yarns about adventures.”
“Jem!” said Don indignantly; and as if it only wanted his companion’s words to start him in a furious outburst of passion; “it is shameful! It is a cruel indignity and disgrace.”
“Hush, hush, my lad! Don’t take it that way. They arn’t so werry heavy, and they don’t hurt much.”
“Hurt? Not hurt much? Why, they are treating us as if we were thieves.”
“What, being ironed, sir? Well, it do seem a bit hard.”
“It’s cruel! It’s horrible! And he had no right to do it for such an offence.”
“Steady, my lad, steady. The sentry ’ll hear you, and have his turn, p’r’aps, at telling tales.”
“But he had no right to do this, I say.”
“P’r’aps not, Mas’ Don; but skippers does just what they please when they’re out at sea in war time. I thought he was going to hang us once.”