Chapter Thirty Five.
History Repeating Itself.
“How do you like that?” cried the man, leaning over the poop.
“I’ll tell you bime by,” said Tom Fillot beneath his breath. Then aloud, “All right, my lad. I’ve got you, you know that.”
Mark did know it as he hung there with his teeth set fast, for Tom Fillot’s fingers pressed into his flesh, and seemed to be crushing it against the bones of his ankle.
“Hi, some on you, get more grip o’ me,” shouted Tom. “Get well hold, Dick. You, too, Bob. Now, then, haul away, and have us both in together.”
This was as he hung out of the window from the waist, holding Mark Vandean; and exerting their great strength, the two sailors—for Tom was helpless—drew him right back and inward till Bannock could seize Mark’s other leg.
As they drew him in the man overhead made a savage blow at the boy with the bar he held, but it fell short.
“All right, sir, we’ll pay all that back,” said Tom, as Mark stood on the cabin floor once more, looking rather white, and listening to the smothered cries and yells still coming from the deck, while the big black’s face was a study to see in his wild excitement.
He had hardly noted Mark’s adventure, being all the time close up by the cabin door, listening to the brave fight made by his compatriots; and now, as a fresh pistol-shot was heard, he came from the door.