Captain Mansfield no longer attempted to speak; it was as if his anger was too great to admit of words, but he watched jealously every movement made by his enemies.
The sun was flooding the sea with a golden radiance when the mutineers lowered one of the boats, put into her a small cask of water and some provisions, and then stood as if waiting for the rightful crew of the Day Dream to take their departure.
At such a time resistance would have been worse than useless, and, when his bonds had been removed, the captain said, as he walked toward the rail:
“I warn you that the time will come when this high-handed proceeding must be atoned for, and, if you have any regard for your own necks, you will give us more of a show for life.”
“What do you want now?” the leader asked, with an oath.
“Two boats, and something to serve as sails. With eight people on board one of these little tenders the first strong puff of wind will send her to the bottom. Give us as good a show as you would want for yourselves.”
“It’s a precious sight better than you deserve,” was the brutal reply, as the helpless ones were hurried over the rail, their united weight loading the craft down to the gunwales.
From the time the gag had been removed until he clambered into the boat old Andy had not spoken; but when the painter was cast off and the schooner began to draw away from them, his anger burst forth in a torrent of threats and reproaches.
He called down all manner of curses on the heads of sailors who would turn pirates immediately after having been rescued from such a desolate spot as the key, and predicted the result of these high-handed proceedings in language so energetic that Captain Mansfield said, sharply:
“Be quiet, Andy. You are doing them no harm, and couldn’t better our condition if you talked all day.”