"All right, then," responded Forsythe. "But I'll carry my gun all the time. I'm not going to be shot down without a white man's chance."
"You'll carry a gun, my son," said Sampson, "when we give it to you—and then it won't be to shoot Mr. Denman. It's on your account, remember, that we're giving him a gun. Now, Mr. Denman, where are the pistols and toothpicks?"
"The pistols are in my room, the cutlasses in the room opposite. You have the keys."
"Aft all hands," ordered Jenkins, fumbling in his pockets for the keys, "and get the weapons."
Away they trooped, and crowded down the wardroom companion, Sampson lifting his cap politely to the girl in the chair. In a short time they reappeared, each man loaded down with pistols and cutlasses. They placed them in the forecastle, and when they had come up Sampson released Denman's bonds.
"Now, sir," he said, "you are free. We'll keep our promises, and we expect you to keep yours. Here is your gun, Mr. Denman."
"Thank you, Sampson," said Denman, pocketing the revolver and shaking his aching hands to circulate the blood. "Of course, we are to keep our promises."
"Even though you see things done that will raise your hair, sir."
"What do you mean by that?" asked Denman, with sudden interest.
"Can't tell you anything, sir, except what you may know, or will know. This boat is not bound for the African coast. That's all, sir."