“Wall, captain, I’m willing,” said the skipper, “but my lads here say air yew to be trusted? and what’s to become o’ them if they come up and yew and yewr men turn nasty, and them without weepons?”
“You heard what I said, sir; hand up your pistols,” said Mark, firmly.
“Guess we can’t do that, squaire. But look here, captain.”
The complimentary title did no good, for Mark turned sharply away.
“See that some biscuit and water are lowered down to these people, Fillot,” he cried.
“Ay, ay, sir.”
“Biscuit—water?” roared the American skipper, his voice coming up through the ventilator with a yell. “Yew don’t mean to say—”
He stopped short to listen to Tom Fillot’s next words.
“Shall we open the hatch, sir?”
“No; lower all down through the ventilator,” cried Mark, from where he had walked.