“Guess them two niggers o’ yewrn hev got the megrims, squaire. Get ’em both aboard, lay ’em down, and hev ’em dowsed with buckets o’ water.”
“Stop!” cried Mark, excitedly, as he thrust back the American. “Here, my lads, what is it?”
The two blacks did not understand his words, but they did his gesture, and Soup made a bound forward to the main hatchway, uttered a low, deep roar, and stooped, pointing down.
“It ain’t megrims; it’s hyderyphoby,” cried the American, quickly. “He’s dangerous. Get him aboard;” and as he spoke he drew a pistol from his breast, cocked it, and took aim at the black.
But with one motion Tom Fillot whipped out his cutlass, giving it so broad a sweep that the flat of the weapon struck the American’s wrist, and the pistol flew out of his hand.
At that moment, in answer to a loud cry from Soup, there came a wild, excited, smothered clamour from below the hatch; and with a cry of rage, the American stooped to pick up his pistol, while his men rushed to seize hatchet and capstan bar.
Mark’s dirk was out now, and he presented it at the American skipper.
“Surrender, sir!” he cried; “the game’s up. Draw, my lads, and cut them down if they resist. Fillot, have off that hatch.”
At a sign, the two blacks tore it open: and with the horrible vapour that arose came a wild, piteous clamour from the imprisoned slaves below.
“Guess yew’re right, curse you!” said the American, in an angry snarl. “Drop it, boys; they’re too many for us this time. We’re done, and it’s of no use to be ugly.”