“Well, now, I thought you would,” added Peaks, with the most provoking calmness.
“But it seems to me that you do stay there.”
“I won’t any longer.”
“Well?”
“I’ll send for the British minister.”
“Do.”
“I won’t stand it any longer.”
“Sit down, then.”
Clyde dashed himself against the door again with all the remaining force he had; but the boatswain, apparently unmoved, opened his book again. It was terribly lacerating to the feelings of the Briton to be so coolly disregarded and ignored. Clyde had the saw, but he had sense enough left to know that any attempt to use it would attract the attention of his jailer, and end in the loss of the implement, with which he could remove a couple of the slats when left alone, or when all hands were asleep at night. Finding that violence accomplished nothing, he seated himself on his stool,—which, however, was far from being the stool of repentance,—and considered the situation more calmly. He was in a profuse perspiration from the energy of his useless exertions. Perhaps he was conscious that he had made a fool of himself, and that his violence was as impolitic as it was useless. In a few moments he was as quiet as a lamb, and remained so for half an hour, though his bondage was no less galling than before.