“Send it after the other. The less knives we have on board, the better off we shall be,” added the second master. “I don’t like the habit of my countrymen in carrying the cuchilla any better than I do that of yours in the use of revolvers.”
“I think it was stupid to throw away those knives, when you have to fight such fellows as these,” said Bill Stout, as he glanced at the prostrate form of the older boatman, who was writhing to break away from his bonds.
“Your opinion on that subject is of no value just now,” added Raimundo contemptuously.
“What do you say, Bark?” continued Bill, appealing to his confederate.
“I agree with Raimundo,” answered Bark. “I don’t want to be mixed up in any fight where knives are used.”
“And I object just as much to knifing a man as I do to being knifed,” said Raimundo. “Though I am a Spaniard, I don’t think I would use a knife to save my own life.”
“I would,” blustered Bill.
“No, you wouldn’t: you haven’t pluck enough to do any thing,” retorted Bark. “I advise you not to say any thing more on this subject, Stout.”
At this moment Filipe made a desperate attempt to free himself; and Bill retreated to the forecastle, evidently determined not to be in the way if another battle took place. Bark picked up the spare tiller the second master had dropped, and prepared to defend himself. Another club was found, and each of those who had the pluck to use was well prepared for another attack.
“Lie still, or I will hit you over the head!” said Bark to the struggling skipper, as he flourished the tiller over him.