“Aw, say, there’s no need of your parading that revolver, is there?” demanded Jack, who had become quite indignant. “We’re your prisoners and we’ll go with you peaceably so you can stick it back into your pocket. You make us look like a couple of desperate characters that way.”
“Desprut? Now blow me hif ye ain’t desprut. I shed say I won’t put me ‘barker’ awi. I ain’t tikin’ no chances of your a-runnin’ hoff, I ain’t. Go on, walk hup a’ead o’ me now,” said the old mariner with emphasis.
“Be keerful, Mitch,” said one of the fishermen. “They looks t’ me like murderers. See t’ willinus mug on that air one with t’ blue jacket.”
“Been a-stealin’ yer lobsters, eh, Mitch?” said another. “Wall, t’ last lobster pirut got ten years. Like es not t’ judge’ll give these ’ere lads just es much.”
“Look a bad lot, they does,” remarked some one else.
All this and a great deal more was said by the fishermen as the lads walked up the dock in front of Old Mitchell. Of course they felt humiliated. Who could feel otherwise under the circumstances?
From the pier the lads proceeded up the board walk of a narrow street lined with low sheds and dingy stores which reeked with the odor of fish. Their alert guard stumped along behind them still with the revolver at their backs.
But presently as they went on the thumping of Mitchell’s wooden leg suddenly ceased and immediately the old man set up a great hue and cry.
“’Ere, ’ere, stop ’em, they’re a-runnin’ awi. Stop ’em, I say.”
Jack and Ray stopped in surprise and turned to look and what they saw almost convulsed them with laughter.