“I tell you they are, sir. You ask Tom Bodger if they arn’t.”
“Yes, they’re the regular irons,” said the midshipman, huskily; and Aleck, who still held his hand, felt that he was all of a tremble.
“So, you see, Master Aleck, it’s on’y fair. Tit for tat, you know.”
“That will do, sir,” cried the lad, sharply. “Don’t be a coward as well as cruel to this gentleman. Now, then, set down the lanthorn on one of the stones and unlock this fetter, or whatever it is.”
“Can’t, sir,” said the man, gruffly.
“What! I order you to do it.”
“Yes, sir, I hear you, but the chain’s locked round his ankle.”
“Well, I know that. Unlock it.”
“Well, I would, sir, as it’s come to this, but I arn’t got the key.”
“What!” cried Aleck, with a chill of despair running through him. “Where is it, then?”