"You were hiding!" vehemently declared the black-eyed man.
"Whereabouts?"
"On the ground, of course; there are no trees to climb around here."
"None o' yer guff!" The swarthy captor dealt Hugh a hard thwack on the side of his head. "What's yer business here, anyhow? Where's yer camp?"
No answer.
"By gad, I'll make ye open up!" cried the cross-eyed knave, losing his temper. He was about to strike Hugh again, when the other man, still holding the lad in a steel-trap grip, pushed him aside with one foot.
"Hold off, Harry," he commanded gruffly. "I know where his camp is. He's one of Lem Vinton's crew. That's the Arrow over yonder, but he ain't going back to it yet awhile."
"Let me go!" shouted Hugh, struggling to free himself from the grasp of those sinewy hands. "Let me go, I say! What—-what do you want with me? I tell you—-help! Hel——-"
The frantic shout was checked by another blow from the angry ruffian's fist, and Hugh measured his length upon the sand.
"Shut up, will ye?" snarled the man, thrusting a bunch of sharp-edged grass into Hugh's mouth. "Look here, Branks," he added, "we can't let this kid blow the gaff on us to Lem Vinton. Why, the cap'n wouldn't wait ten minutes before he'd sail out to find that blamed cutter ag'in; and then we'd have him and the Petrel on our trail."
"Harry, you're right—-dead right. The boy has got to come with us, until——-"