There was almost a smirk of self-satisfaction on the captain’s face as he found himself thus linked with a man of Lord Stranleigh’s rank.
“Well, earl,” he said, “what do you want me to do?”
They were interrupted by the heavy steps of the mate coming down the stairs.
“What do you want?” roared the captain. “Get out of here.”
“Beg pardon, sir,” explained the mate, “but they’re getting uneasy on the yacht, and want to know what’s become of the boss.”
“Just excuse me for a moment, captain,” said Stranleigh, “and I’ll speak to them. You know you did rather tyrannize over us when we first hailed you, and they probably think you’ve Mac-kellered me. I rather flatter myself I’ve made a pun there, for ‘keller’ is the German for cellar.” The young man sprang lightly up the steps, and went over to the bulwarks.
“Is it all right, sir?” shouted Mackeller.
“All right, thank you.”
“It’s getting dark, you know. Hadn’t I better heave a revolver up to you, and if they try any tricks you can fire it off, and we’ll be aboard before you can say ‘Schwartzbrod.’”
“Ah, Mackeller, Mackeller, you’re always thinking of deadly weapons and acts of piracy! No wonder I get a bad name in marine circles. Everything’s going smoothly, and I expect to be with you within ten minutes.”