“I—a—thank—you, no,” said Mark, looking wildly round in the hope of finding some excuse for ordering his men to search the vessel; “but you shall have the flour if I can find it.”
“That’s what I call real civil, mister,” said the American, advancing, and backing Mark toward the side, for the lad gave way, feeling that he had no excuse for staying. “Smart schooner that o’ yewrn. Guess yew could sail round my old tub. Won’t take a cigar?”
“No, no: thanks,” cried Mark, turning to Tom Fillot. “We can do nothing more,” he whispered.
“No, sir,” said Tom, saluting. “He’s too many for us. And yet I could swear to it.”
Disappointed, confused, and angry at his position, Mark felt that he must give up, and that a far more experienced officer would have done the same. Turning to his men, he gave orders for them to go down into the boat, and then, telling the skipper to come on board the schooner, he gave another glance forward at the hatches, straining his ears to catch the slightest sound, meaning, if he heard either groan or cry, to seize the vessel at once and search. Without such a sign or sound he dared not. It would have been overstepping his authority.
“Ready, mister? Guess I’ll come in my own boat,” said the American; and he backed Mark farther to the side.
“Look at old Soup, sir,” whispered Tom, excitedly. “Yes; and Taters has got it too.”
“Here, hi!” shouted the American. “Whare air yew going?”
For Soup had taken a step or two forward, after looking wildly and in a puzzled way at Mark, as if wondering that he did not act, and then throwing back his head, he stood with his eyes rolling and his broad nostrils inflated, snuffling like a horse over some doubtful hay.
The next moment his fellow was following his example, and uttering something in a low, deep whisper in his own tongue.