"Is this all you have, sir?" asked Jenkins.
"Why do you ask that?" answered Denman, hotly. "As a prisoner, why may I not lie to you?"
"Because, Mr. Denman, I think you wouldn't. However, I won't ask; I'll search this room and the whole boat, confiscating every weapon. You will have the run of your stateroom and the wardroom, but will not be allowed on deck. And you will not be annoyed, except perhaps to lend Forsythe any books he may want. He's the only educated man in the crowd."
"Better send him down under escort," responded Denman, "if you want him back."
"Yes, yes, that'll be attended to. I've no part in your private affairs, sir; but you gave him one good one, and that ought to be enough for a while. If you tackle him again, you'll have the whole bunch at you. Better let well enough alone."
Denman sat down in his room, and Jenkins departed. Soon he came back with three others—the steadiest men of the crew—and they made a systematic search for weapons in the wardroom and all staterooms opening from it. Then they locked the doors leading to the captain's quarters and the doors leading forward, and went on deck, leaving Denman a prisoner, free to concoct any antagonistic plans that came to his mind.
But he made none, as yet; he was too well-contented and happy, not so much in being released from a somewhat false position as a prisoner under parole as in the lifting of the burden of the years, the shame, humiliation, chagrin, and anger dating from the school-day thrashing. He smiled as he recalled the picture of Forsythe staggering along the deck. The smile became a grin, then a soft chuckle, ending in joyous laughter; then he applied the masculine leveler of all emotion—he smoked.
The staterooms—robbed of all weapons—were left open, and, as each room contained a deadlight, or circular window, he had a view of the sea on each beam, but nothing ahead or astern; nor could he hear voices on deck unless pitched in a high key, for the men, their training strong upon them, remained forward.
There was nothing on either horizon at present. The boat was storming along to the southward, as he knew by a glance at the "telltale" overhead, and all seemed well with the runaways until a sudden stopping of the engines roused him up, to peer out the deadlights, and speculate as to what was ahead.
But he saw nothing, from either side, and strained his ears for sounds from the deck. There was excitement above. Voices from forward came to him, muffled, but angry and argumentative. They grew louder as the men came aft, and soon he could distinguish Jenkins' loud profanity, drowning the protests of the others.