Chapter Forty One.
Fun!
“This” was, of course, Bob Howlett’s little midshipman’s dirk, a weapon worn more for ornament than use. But the boy looked as if he meant to use it, for, according to his own way of expressing himself, his monkey was up, he was bubbling over with excitement, and ready for anything. As it happened, he was exceeding his duty, for the officer in command would never have given a mere lad charge of men to make a desperate attack upon enemies who had apparently taken refuge below. But without a moment’s hesitation he bore Mark back against the bulkhead, gripping him with one hand and with the other holding the point of his dirk against the lad’s throat.
“Here, do as I do, my lads,” he shouted; and then to Mark:
“Yield, you miserable Yankee hound, or I’ll run you through.”
Excitement, the emotion and relief at finding himself among friends once more, and the prize safe, robbed Mark for a few moments of all power of speech or action; and then the absurdity of the position tickled him into the determination to hold his peace for a few minutes, and keep up the joke.
“Here,” he cried, imitating the Yankee captain’s drawl, and speaking in a husky, disguised voice, “just mind what yew’re about with that there toothpick, or yew’ll be hurting somebody if yew don’t cut yewrself.”
“Silence, you dog!” cried Bob, fiercely. “Do you surrender?”