“Here, my lad,” said Mark, signing to the man what to do; “draw your cutlass and take this gentleman on board the other schooner. You’ll keep guard over him till I come.”
Soup whipped out his cutlass, caught the American skipper by the arm, and there was a tremendous yell.
“Say, mister, yew didn’t tell him to kill me.”
“No, no, Soup, you don’t understand,” cried Mark, arresting the man, for he had evidently taken it that he was to play the part of executioner upon the white skipper; while to judge from his aspect, he was prepared to perform his part with great gusto. Then making the men understand, he was about to despatch them over the side in one of the boats, when the American turned obstinate.
“Look here, squaire,” he said, “I give in, but yew’re an officer and I’m an officer. Play fair with a man. That nigger’ll kill me sure as a gun if I go along with him. Seems to me I shan’t be safe ’less I’m along o’ you, so I guess I’ll stop here.”
Mark was about to insist, but a glance at Soup was sufficient to alter his mind.
“Very well, stop for the present, sir, till I go back aboard.”
“Yew’re going back, then?” said the American, with a flash of the eye.
“I am, sir,” said Mark, sharply, “but I’m going to leave a strong prize crew here on board, and I wouldn’t advise you or your men to make any attempt at recapture. Matters might turn out, as you call it, ‘ugly.’”
“All right, squaire, but I don’t see where your strong prize crew is coming from,” said the man, drily.