"And now, Mr. Randall, if you will go on deck, I will be up presently."
The mate reappeared on deck with a satisfied air, occasionally looking with a glance of triumphant spite at Charlie, who was standing beside his tried and trusty friend, Bill Sturdy.
"You don't know what's in store for you, my lad," he muttered. "Pity his mother could not be here to see his fair flesh quivering under the keen lash. Her heart would feel every stroke. She might repent then, the scorn with which she repelled the suit of John Randall. How I hate that boy! He brings up his father before me. So much the better. When he shrinks beneath the lash, I shall think it is my old rival upon whom it is falling."
Bill Sturdy, meanwhile, said in a low voice to Charlie, "I don't like the looks of the mate this morning. He's hatching mischief of some kind, if I'm not greatly mistaken."
"Against us?"
"That's what I mistrust, my lad; against one or both of us. He hates us both, and I ain't quite sure which he hates the most."
"And yet I never did him any injury."
"Then he's done you some harm, depend upon it. People hate worst those they have injured most, and he's done you a great wrong in stealing you from home."
"What do you suppose made him do that, Bill?"