“Come, out o’ the way, younker,” cried Job, seizing the helm.
Tommy shrank from the man, as if he feared the contamination of his touch.
“You young whelp, what are ye affeared on? eh!”
He aimed a blow at Tommy, which the latter smartly avoided.
“Murderer!” cried the boy, rousing himself suddenly, “you shall swing for this yet.”
“Shall I? eh! Here, Jim, catch hold o’ the tiller.”
Jim obeyed, and Job sprang towards Tommy, but the latter, who was lithe and active as a kitten, leaped aside and avoided him. For five minutes the furious man rushed wildly about the deck in pursuit of the boy, calling on Bunks to intercept him, but Bunks would not stir hand or foot, and Jim could not quit the helm, for the wind had increased to a gale; and as there was too much sail set, the schooner was flying before it with masts, ropes, and beams creaking under the strain.
“Do your worst,” cried Tommy, during a brief pause, “you’ll never catch me. I defy you, and will denounce you the moment we got into port.”
“Will you? then you’ll never get into port alive,” yelled Job, as he leaped down the companion, and returned almost instantly, with one of the skipper’s pistols.
He levelled it and fired, but the unsteady motion of the vessel caused him to miss his aim. He was about to descend for another pistol, when the attention of all on board was attracted by a loud roar of surf.