"That you tried to rob us of, you mean," said Tom, flushing angrily.
"Well, have it anyway you like it," said Walstein, in his rumbly, throaty tones. "I just want to tell you this, though, that you are in our power, and it will do you no good to try to get away till we want you to."
"That will depend," rejoined Tom.
"Depend on what, pray?"
The question came from Dampier.
"On whether I see a chance to get away or not," replied Tom.
Walstein muttered something about "taking the impudence out of the brat," but Dampier laid a hand on his arm. Then he spoke with extraordinary vehemence.
"See here, Tom Dacre," he hissed, coming quite close, and shaking one long, yellow finger almost in Tom's face, "I hate you. Captain Walstein hates you, too. We've got good reason to, as you know. We're going to get even with you, and get good and even, too."
Before Tom could reply they both left the cabin, leaving the lad in a very unenviable frame of mind. His case looked hopeless, and whatever might have been the intentions of Walstein and Dampier when they entered, they had left again without giving Tom any clue as to what his fate was to be.
Before long, he grew tired of lying still, and got out of the bunk. He was in his shirt and trousers, which were still damp, but his coat was flung down on a nearby chair. Slipping it on, he made for the door of the cabin.