“Your time has come now, Dory Dornwood!” said Oscar fiercely, as he began to drag Dory out of the pilot-house.
“So has yours!” added Mr. Brookbine, as he
stepped forward from behind the pilot-house, where he had been reading the morning paper brought up by the Goldwing.
The master-carpenter took the rebel by the nape of the neck, and snapped him off his feet before he could wink twice. He pitched him half-way across the hurricane deck. Oscar was nothing but a “spring chicken” in the hands of the burly mechanic.
“It’s a pity I took you off that island!” exclaimed Mr. Brookbine, as he bestowed a glance of contempt upon the rebel. “Did he hurt you, Dory?”
“Not at all. He came up behind me when I was not thinking of any thing of that kind, or I should have taken care of myself,” replied the young pilot, as he rushed back to the wheel.
The pilot got his range again, and the Sylph went ahead as though nothing had happened. The master-carpenter walked up to the fallen rebel, who appeared to have been hurt when he struck the deck, though he was in the act of getting up. Mr. Brookbine did not wait for him to finish the act, but seized him by the nape of the neck again, and bore him to the pilot-house.
“It is a pity we took this fellow from the island, Dory, for we can’t trust him loose about the steamer,” said the stout Vermonter. “Is there any place on board where I can lock him up?”
“Put him in the ice-house,” replied Dory, who was entirely willing to have his assailant placed where he could do no more mischief.
“Let me alone!” growled Oscar, attempting to break away from the grip of the master-carpenter.