“But what have they to do with it? Oh, my arm! It’s nearly dragged out of the socket. Here, speak out. What do you mean?”
“Only this, sir: they were too cunning for us. They cheated us with that row they made.”
“Look here,” cried Mark, pettishly, for he was in great pain, “I’m in no humour for listening to your rigmaroles. Help me to get this hatch undone, and then we must make a rush at them and drive them below. Nice state of affairs to beat the Americans, and all the time leave the way open for those wretched blacks to take us in the rear.”
“You don’t see the rights of it, sir,” said Tom Fillot, dismally.
“Yes, I do. The blacks thought they had a good chance of getting their own way, and they took it.”
“Ah, you think it was the niggers, then?”
“Why, of course. Bah! how stupid of me. They made that noise below in the forecastle—the Yankees, I mean.”
“Yes, sir, you’ve got the right pig by the ear now,” said Tom Fillot. “They kicked up that row to cover the noise they made breaking through the bulk-heading, so as to get into the hold where the blacks are.”
“Yes,” cried Mark, excitedly, “and the slaves fought and tried to keep them back. Of course; and we thought it was those poor fellows. Well, it was a cunning trick. A ship makes a bad prison for one’s enemies.”
“Yes, sir; they’ve been one too many for us this time,” said Tom Fillot. “The Yankees are sharp, and no mistake.”