“If I was the skipper I’d be ready for him this time,” said Mark to his companion.
“How? What would you do?”
“Have the boat’s crew ready to drop down the moment the slaver captain pitched another poor fellow overboard. No, no,” he added, quickly; “he’ll never be such a wretch as to do that again.”
“Oh, won’t he just?” cried Bob, nodding his head, a great many times; “he’ll go on chucking the whole cargo out one by one, just like the man did his gloves and things to the bear, for it to stop and smell them while he escaped. Here, I mean to go and save the next black chap, and then perhaps I shall look as cocky as you do. Oh, what a wonderful chap you are, Van!”
Mark made a quick gesture, as if to hit out at his messmate, and then looked on in wonder as the captain ordered the cutter’s crew back into the boat, and the men to the falls, ready in case the slaver captain should repeat his manoeuvre, while the guns were double-shotted and laid for the moment when the schooner would be once more within range.
“I say,” whispered Bob, “don’t the skipper look savage? I believe he’d send a broadside into the schooner if it wasn’t for the slaves on board.”
“Of course he would; he said so,” replied Mark, and he went forward and then down below to where, by the dim light of a swinging lantern, he could see the wild eyes of the black as he lay in a bunk, ready to start up in dread as the lad approached.
“All right; be still,” said the midshipman, laying his hand upon the man’s shoulder, and pressing him back; “how are you?”
The man glared at him in silence, but made no sound.
“It’s of no use to talk to you, I s’pose,” continued Mark. “There, go to sleep. Perhaps we shall have some companions for you in the morning. Hullo! begun again!”