“Oh, that’ll all come, sir, but it strikes me that as soon as the captain finds we don’t get into port, he’ll be sailing down after us.”
“The sooner the better, Tom,” said Mark. “But now then, tell me: how are we off for water?”
“Plenty yet, sir, and there’s enough prog—beg pardon, sir, wictuals—to last us for some days; and—look, sir, look. Here’s a chance.”
“What? Where?” cried Mark, startled by the man’s excitement.
“Another slaver coming round the point there. You must take that one too, sir, and then you can go into port with flying colours. Double flying colours, sir!”
Mark looked eagerly at the long, low vessel just creeping into sight in the distance, and his follower’s words inspired him with an intense desire to act and make a second seizure. It was very tempting, but—Yes, there was a but, a big but, and a suppose in the way. His men were still anything but strong; and though the blacks were willing enough, it would not be wise to trust to them for help in an attack upon a vessel with possibly a strong crew.
His musings were interrupted by the sailor.
“Shall I alter our course, sir?” he said.
“No, Tom. Better not,” replied Mark. “I was thinking.”
“What about, sir—our being able to catch her?”