"All right, Billy, on watch here. Let me talk to him now," said Martin.
He dragged Ichi closer to the window, so that daylight fell upon the man's face. Then he sat down in front of him, and regarded him narrowly.
Ichi was in a frenzy of mingled hope and fear. He gabbled half incoherently his allegiance to his captor, his love for him, his willingness to do this, that, anything—only, not the Deep Place—prease! He was a pitiable object, could Martin have found pity for him in his heart. He was no longer the suave, dapper Japanese gentleman. His boasted gentility was gone with his courage; and superstitious terror had quite overcome his Western skepticism. He was just a yellow coolie, terror-stricken, cringing before and begging of his master.
"Wild Bob has just come up on the poop. He's talking to the mate," called Little Billy.
"Good," said Martin. He unbuckled the strap from around Ichi's ankles, and hoisted the man erect.
"Now, Ichi, you do what I say, and I promise you it won't be the Deep Place. Indeed, I promise you your life, so far as I hold it—though you don't deserve it. But if you don't do what I say——"
"Yis—oh, yes, please, I helpful you muchly," he promised, eagerly.
"Carew is at the taffrail," said Little Billy. "He's hailing the beach—hailing Ichi."
Martin had finished looping the strap about the chain of the handcuffs. Now he thrust the man forward, into the window; he, himself, retaining a grasp on the leather, and remaining beyond the window edge, by the hunchback's side.
Captain Carew stood at the taffrail and searched the face of the mountain. Presently he cupped his hands, and sent a second stentorian hail across the water—"Ahoy-y-y! Ahoy, the beach! Ichi!"