“Fight fair, can’t you?” growled the captain of the “Rocket.”
“This isn’t a fight,” retorted the voice of the newcomer. “It’s a matter of self-preservation. Lie still, can’t you. I don’t want to have to club you out of your senses. It isn’t a gentleman’s kind of work.”
“You’re right it isn’t,” gritted Halstead, though he now lay more quietly, for the auburn-haired Rexford had thrown himself, also, upon him. “There isn’t anything about this business that smacks of the gentleman,” the boy added, tauntingly.
“Hold your tongue, will you?” demanded the unknown one, angrily.
“When it pleases me most,” growled Captain Tom, fast getting into an ugly, reckless mood.
“Rexford, I can hold him,” went on the man. “Station yourself by the youngster’s head. Go as far as you like, if he tries to make any noise. Now, young man, I think you would better listen, while I do the talking. We’re sorry enough to treat you in this fashion, but it’s all your own fault.”
“How is that?” challenged the youthful skipper.
“We gave you a fine chance to make your fortune. You wouldn’t have it. Now, if we let you go, you’d spoil all our plans by repeating what has happened to your employer.”
“Right!” snapped Captain Tom. “That’s just what I’m going to do.”