"What's that?" cried the captain. Then catching an inkling of Franz's scheme, he hit the man a quick, hard blow in the mouth with his clenched fist.
"Give him another!" urged the mate.
But the captain's rage was over, though Franz sent him a bold, mocking laugh, even as the blood trickled down in a tiny red stream from where his mouth had, been struck.
I never saw such courage of its kind.
They left him there for ten hours. But he stood without a sign of exhaustion or giving in. And they untied him. And let him loose.
And, till we hove to at Dalghety's Wharf, in Sydney Harbour, unnoticed, Franz, the Alsace-Lorrainer, roamed the boat at will, like a passenger.
"Wait till I get on shore ... this little shanghaiing party of the captain's will cost him a lot of hard money," he said, in a low voice, to me,—standing idly by, his hands in his pockets, while I was bending over the brass on the bridge railing, polishing away.
"But they've nearly killed you, Franz ... will it be worth it?"
"All I can say is I wish they'd use me rougher."