“Hurray!” shouted Mark’s little party, as they drove the crew below in the forecastle; and after a guard was set, Tom Fillot came back to his officer, who stood talking to the American, while that worthy lit himself a cigar.
“This is some dollars out o’ my pocket, mister,” he said. “Guess I wish that thar nigger had been drowned afore you brought him here. What air yew going to dew now?”
That was a question Mark was not prepared to answer, with two prizes on his hands.
Chapter Twenty Seven.
“A Last Resource.”
But Mark Vandean soon began to show the American slaving skipper what he meant to “dew now,” and that in times of emergency he did not mean to talk much. For turning to Tom Fillot, he gave his orders respecting the slaver’s crew.
“Keep them below in the forecastle,” he said; “and place the second black over them as guard.”
“Ay, ay, sir!” cried Tom, and he proceeded to plant Taters on guard over the hatch, armed with a drawn cutlass, to the black’s intense satisfaction.