“Oh, let them enjoy themselves,” said Mark; “it’s better than hatching plans to attack us.”
It was now within about an hour of daybreak, and Mark kept on looking longingly away over the mist eastward, in hopes of seeing the stars begin to grow pale. But all was deep, dark night at present, and he paced the deck, going from place to place, listening to the uproar made by the Americans, which was as loud as ever.
“Yes,” said Mark at last. “They must have got some spirits down below, Tom, or they would never keep up noise like that.”
Just as he was speaking one of the prisoners finished off a dance with a tremendous stamp, stamp, stamp, and the others began to applaud and cheer vociferously. Then all was silent, and Mark exclaimed,—
“At last!”
“Perhaps they’ll go to sleep now, sir, and I hope they won’t wake again for a week.”
“Why, what’s the matter now?” cried Mark. “I’m not going to have the blacks begin. Here, pass the word for Soup—Pish! I mean for the big black.”
“Ay, ay, sir;” and Soup came up quickly, all excitement at the noise going on in the hold.
“Why, they’re quarrelling and getting up a fight,” cried Mark, as the noise increased; and there was evidently a struggle, while blows were being struck and savage cries arose.
“Go down and stop it,” cried Mark. “Stupid idiots! Why can’t they be still?”