“Yew don’t? Wall, look here; yew’ve took the schooner, and I s’pose she’s your prize if yew say yew ain’t pirates. ’Scuse me for thinking yew was, seeing as yew came in a schooner as don’t look a bit like a Britannic Majesty’s ship o’ war.”
“I told you that was a prize to her Majesty’s ship.”
“Ah, so yew did, and now yew’ve got another, but yew don’t want a lot o’ Murrican corpses aboard, squaire, so let us out, so as we can breathe. We’ll make a truce with yew.”
The boat had come back from the second prize, and Tom Fillot walked up to look on, listening and wondering.
“You mean to say that if I let you come on deck—you and your men—you will not attempt to escape or recapture the schooner?”
“That’s so, captain.”
Tom made an angry gesticulation, and took a step nearer to his young officer.
“Then to show your good faith,” cried Mark, “hand up all your pistols through the ventilator.”
There was a few moments’ silence, and Tom slapped his knee softly.
“Well, do you hear?” cried Mark.