“Prize to her Britannic Majesty’s ship Nautilus.”
“Prize schooner, eh?” said the American, coolly, gazing over Mark’s shoulder at the graceful little vessel. “Wal, I am surprised. I said as she looked a clipper as could sail a few.”
“Your papers, please.”
“Eh? Oh, suttunly. Air yew an officer?”
“Yes,” replied Mark, shortly. “Your papers, please.”
“Wall, I thowt we was pretty smart, and made skippers of our boys in mighty good time, but you beat us. I give in. Ephrim, fetch up them thar papers outer my cabin.”
A sour-looking fellow with a villainous grin slouched to the little cabin-hatch; and by this time the whole of the boat’s crew, including the two blacks, and saving the coxswain, who held on to the chains, were aboard, Tom Fillot scanning the deck eagerly for some sign of the nefarious traffic, but none was visible.
“Guessed yew was pirates for a moment, mister,” said the skipper. “Yew quite scarred me, and I kim back in a hurry, thinking yew meant robbery on the high seas. Hev a cigar?”
He held out a handful, which he had taken from his pocket, and all in the coolest, most matter-of-fact way.
“Thanks, no,” said Mark. “I don’t smoke.”