The man turned to Mark and looked at him inquiringly. “All righ?” he said.
“Yes; all right,” cried Mark, with a look which gave the men some confidence, and they sat down.
“That’s right, my dark-skinned messmate,” growled Tom Fillot, “Why don’t you larn to understand that you’re a free nigger now?”
They were close alongside of the schooner; and the blacks’ nostrils began to quiver and their excitement increase as they caught the horrible, sickening effluvium which was wafted from the hold. Starting up, they made as if they were about to jump overboard, in the full belief that they were once more about to be entrapped into the hold of a slaver; but dropping the rudder-lines, Mark sprang to them, and laid his hands upon their shoulders.
“I tell you it is all right,” he said. “Won’t you believe me?”
The men could not understand his words, but the open countenance and frank manner of the midshipman inspired confidence, and they sank down, stretched out their hands to him, took his, and held it against their foreheads in turn.
“Come, that’s right, my lads,” continued Mark, smiling. “There, don’t think we English folk could be so treacherous. You’ll see directly what we want of you. Come along.”
“Well, I’m blest!” cried Bob. “I say, play fair, Van. You’re taking my job out of my hands. I’m showman here. Stow that.”
“Show up, then,” cried Mark, merrily. “There, up with you.”
He sprang on board, to find that there had been no change in the state of affairs, but that Mr Russell had been anxiously awaiting his coming.