“Yes.”
“Loaded?”
“Of course; but why do you ask?” cried Mark, excitedly.
“The game has begun, sir. It will have to be the irons, after all.”
Almost as he spoke there was a flash and the report of a pistol, fired from the forecastle hatch.
Chapter Twenty Eight.
Tom Fillot advises.
There was a fierce howl of rage and a heavy crash from forward as Mark drew and cocked his pistol, running toward the hatch with Tom Fillot into the foul smelling smoke that hung around, in the midst of which stood the great black, whirling the capstan bar with which he was armed about his head, after delivering a crushing blow at someone who had tried to climb out, and then dropped back groaning, but not much injured, fortunately for him, the principal force of the blow having fallen upon the woodwork of the hatchway.