“There’s lots o’ irons below, such as they used for the poor niggers. Why shouldn’t we couple a lot of the prisoners together, and make ’em safe?”
“Put them in irons, Tom? No, I don’t like to do that—only as a last resource.”
“Very well, sir,” said Tom, rubbing his head where he had received a heavy blow, “only if you wouldn’t mind telling on me, sir, I should like to know what you calls a last resource.”
“I will, Tom, when I know,” said Mark, smiling. “Hail our schooner, and tell them to come aboard in the other boat.”
Tom turned away and obeyed the order, passing the American skipper, who was leaning on the bulwark looking sick, and as the sailor came up he turned to him with an ugly leer.
“Guess I’m going to pay yew for that, young man,” he said. “I don’t let a chap hit me twice for nothing.”
“Like to do it now?” said Tom, sharply.
“No; I’m not quite ready, mister. Yew’ll know when I am.”
“Thankye,” said Tom Fillot. “Then now look here; just you let me give you a hint, too. I’m acting as mate to my young officer here, and he takes a good deal o’ notice o’ what I say. If you don’t keep a civil tongue in your head, I’ll tell him as you’re real dangerous, and that the best thing he can do is to have some o’ them irons clapped on your arms and legs, and then shove you below along with your men.”
“What!” cried the skipper, fiercely; “put me in irons! Me, an Amurrican citizen. I should like to see him do it!”