“That’s right,” commented Nicholls, as he stepped forward, also with a brace of revolvers in his hands, and with a kick swept the two belts far along the deck beyond the reach of their owners. “Now, come here, my joker, and let me tie you up,” he continued, addressing one of the men as he flung a coil of the fore topgallant brace off its belaying-pin.
“I’ll be shot if I do!” exclaimed the man addressed, with a furious oath.
“You will be shot if you don’t” retorted Leslie, in a quiet, concentrated tone of voice that made the man addressed involuntarily shudder. “It is no good, men,” he continued, “your comrades are prisoners ashore and utterly powerless to help you. The game is up. We are here to regain possession of this ship, and we mean to do it. And if either of you is foolish enough to offer resistance, you will be badly hurt.”
Leslie’s stern and uncompromising manner had its effect; and the two men, realising their utter helplessness, sullenly and with many curses submitted to be bound—an operation that Nicholls performed with much gusto and an effectiveness that left nothing to be desired. Then, leaving Simpson to mount guard over the grumbling pair, Dick and Nicholls went forward to the forecastle to call the remainder of the crew on deck, noticing, as they passed the galley door, that the Irish cook was busying himself inside with his pots and pans, and it was not difficult to discern that he was in a state of extreme mental perturbation. Arriving at the forecastle hatch, they found the cover on and secured with a bar and padlock, whereupon Dick returned to the galley and, putting his head inside, said—
“Dolan, I see that the fore scuttle is locked. Who has the key?”
“Sure, and it’s Jack Hampton that has that same, sor,” answered the cook with alacrity, and some surprise at Leslie’s unaccountable familiarity with his name. “And by the same token he also has the key of the main cabin and of Misther Marshall’s stateroom, your honour’s honour,” he added.
“Which of those two men is Jack Hampton?” demanded Leslie.
“It’s the fellah that’s triced up so nately to the port rail, sor,” answered Dolan.
“Then go you and take the keys out of his pocket,” commanded Dick. “I have no doubt you know which they are.”
“Ay, ay, sor; faith and I do that same,” replied the man.