“Yes, sir, so I s’pose. Nobody else wouldn’t bully like that.”
“I mean the skipper of the schooner we took.”
“Think so, sir?” cried the man, excitedly.
“I’m sure of it. I know his voice again. That’s the man who had me thrown into the boat.”
“That’s right, then, sir. I couldn’t tell, because my head was all dumb with the crack I got; but you weren’t hit, and of course you’d know.”
Just then there came a low, piteous, half-stifled wail from the vessel, which went so home to Mark’s feelings, that his voice sounded changed and suffocated, as he whispered,—
“I’ve often said that I was sorry I came to sea, Tom Fillot, so as to be sent on this horrible slavery business, but I’m glad now.”
“That’s right, sir.”
“And we’ll have that schooner back, and set those poor creatures free if I die for it.”
“That you shall, sir,” cried Tom Fillot. “No, no, that you shan’t, I mean.”