“All in good time,” answered Leslie, airily. “Now march, as I told you, and be quick about it, or I shall be compelled to freshen your way for you with another shot. I know all about you, my good man, and I am therefore not at all disposed to put up with any nonsense. Forward!”
With a further volley of curses of extraordinary virulence, Turnbull turned on his heel and resumed his way in the direction of the treasure-cave, with Dick at his heels directing him from time to time to “port a little,” “starboard a bit,” or “steady as you go,” as the case might be.
A few minutes of this kind of thing sufficed to bring the pair close to the treasure-cave, the entrance of which had been considerably enlarged by Nicholls and Simpson for their own convenience. They were, however, absent for the moment when Dick arrived with his prisoner; and the latter stared in wonderment at the cave and the chests in front of it, which the two men had removed from the interior prior to transference to the cutter.
“So,” exclaimed Turnbull, savagely, “that’s what you’re at, is it? Stealin’ my treasure! Very well; if I don’t make you smart for this my name ain’t Robert Turnbull, that’s all. What d’ye mean, I’d like to know, by comin’ here and stealin’ treasure that don’t belong to ye, eh?”
“To whom does it belong, pray, if not to me?” demanded Dick, blandly, curious to learn what kind of claim this ruffian would set up.
“Why, to me, of course,” howled Turnbull, clenching his right fist and shaking it savagely at Leslie.
“Keep that right hand of yours over your head,” ordered Dick, sharply, again covering him with lightning-like rapidity. “That’s right,” he continued. “Now perhaps you will kindly tell me how it came to be yours.”
“Why, I got it off a former shipmate of mine,” answered Turnbull. “He give it to me when—when he—died.”
“What was his name?” asked Dick.
“His name?” reiterated Turnbull, “what do his name matter? And anyhow I’ve forgot it.”