“We must have that schooner, Tom Fillot,” said Mark, after a short pause.
“You’ve got it, sir, and we’ll sail her up to the port with flying colours. You’ll see.”
“I hope you’ll turn out a true prophet, Tom.”
“So do I, sir, and I’m just going to whisper to the boys what you say, and then I’m thinking it’ll soon be time to go on board and kick those chaps over the side.”
“No killing, Tom.”
“No, sir. You trust us. We won’t go quite so far as that,” said the sailor grimly; and he crept away to begin whispering to his messmates, while Mark sat straining his eyes in the direction of the schooner, hot, excited, but without the slightest sensation of shrinking. This had given place to an intense longing for action, which made his heart beat with a heavy throb, while, from time to time, there was a strange swelling in his throat, as he thought of the agony of the poor creatures pent-up in the stifling heat of the schooner’s hold, some of them, perhaps, dying, others dead, and waiting to join their fellows in the silent waters, happily released from their pain.
He was so deeply plunged in thought that he did not notice Tom Fillot’s return, and he gave quite a start as the man laid a hand upon his knee.
“Look there, sir,” he whispered.
“Eh? where?”
“Over the trees, behind me.”