“On the one hand,” mused The O’Mahony, aloud, “you got scooped in afore you had time to fire a shot, or do any mischief at all—so ’t we don’t owe you no grudge, so to speak. Well, that’s in your favor. And then there’s your mouth rammed full of gun-waste—that ought to count some on your side, too.”
The Englishman looked at him, curiosity struggling with dislike in his glance, but said nothing.
“On ’t’ other hand,” pursued The O’Mahony, “you ain’t quite a prisoner of war, because you was openly dealin’ with a traitor and spy, and playin’ to come the gouge game over me an’ my men. That’s a good deal ag’in’ you. For sake of argument, let’s say the thing is a saw-off, so far as what’s happened already is concerned. The big question is: What’s goin’ to happen?”
“Really—” the officer began again, and then closed his lips abruptly.
“Yes,” the other went on, “that’s where the shoe pinches. I s’pose now, if I was to land you on the coast yonder, anywhere, you wouldn’t give your word to not start an alarm for forty-eight hours, would you?”
“Certainly not!” said the Englishman, with prompt decision.
“No, I thought not. Of course, the alarm’s been given hours ago, but your men didn’t see me, or git enough of a notion of my outfit to make their description dangerous. It’s different with you.”
The officer nodded his head to indicate that he was becoming interested in the situation, and saw the point.
“So that really the most sensible thing I could do, for myself and my men, ’u’d be to lash you to a keg of lead and drop you overboard—wouldn’t it, now?”
The Englishman kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance of gently, heaving waters, and did not answer the question. The O’Mahony, watching his unmoved countenance with respect, made pretense of waiting for a reply, and leaned idly against the capstan to fill his pipe. After a long pause he was forced to break the silence.