“It sounds rough,” he said; “but it’s the safest way out of the thing. Got a wife an’ family?”
The officer turned for the fraction of an instant to scrowl indignantly, the while he snapped out:
“That’s none of your d——d business!”
Whistling softly to himself, with brows a trifle lifted to express surprise, The O’Mahony walked the whole length of the deck and back, pondering this reply:
“I’ve made up my mind,” he announced at last, upon his return. “We’ll land you in an hour or so—or at least give you the dingey and some food and drink, and let you row yourself in, say, six or seven miles. You can manage it all right before nightfall—an’ I’ll take my chances on your startin’ the hue-an’-cry.”
“Understand, I promise nothing!” interposed the other.
“No, that’s all right,” said The O’Mahony. “Mind, if I thought there was any way by which you was likely to get these men o’ mine into trouble, I’d have no more scruple about jumpin’ you into the water there than I would about pullin’ a fish out of it. But, as I figure it out, they don’t stand in any danger. As for me—well, as I said, I’ll take my chances. It’ll make me a heap o’ trouble, I dare say, but I deserve that. This trip o’ mine’s been a fool-performance from the word ‘go,’ and it’s only fair I should pay for it.”
The Englishman looked up at the yawl rigging, taut under the strain of filled sails; at the men huddled together forward; last of all at his captor. His eyes softened.
“You’re not half a bad sort,” he said, “in—ah—spite of the gun-waste. I should think it likely that your men would never be troubled, if they go home, and—ah—behave sensibly.”
The O’Mahony nodded as if a pledge had been given.