Barclay Stuart was awakened by an ugly dream. He started and listened.
Then his heart almost stood still. There was the sound of scuffling on deck—the noise of a fierce fight coming aft and aft, till it raged on the very quarter-deck.
“Down below with them!” This he knew to be the voice of that bloodthirsty Finn, whom he had never trusted.
“Tumble the darkies overboard!”
But some one was heard interceding.
It was Petersen.
“No, no,” he cried, “spare them. No bloodshed.”
“Over they go without bloodshed. Leave the bloodshed to the sharks.”
There were shrieks for mercy now—ah! dear reader, mutiny is a fearful thing—then the sound of heavy bodies falling into the sea told the awful story.
In less time than it takes me to write it, every one in the saloon cabins was astir.