“Not much!” exclaimed Joe. “We’re in for it enough as it is. Tim, I didn’t know you had so much pluck.”
“I wish it was over with,” said Tim, looking apprehensively toward the Seagull.
They stole softly away again, back to the shanty. But it was long before they dropped off to sleep.
When Tim Reardon awoke, the next morning, he was dreaming that he had jumped up suddenly in the cabin of the Surprise and had bumped his head against the roof of the cabin. It was a hard bump, too. Then it seemed as if the boat was turning upside down, and jumping out of water, and the floor rising up and hitting him. The next moment, however, he realized that he was in the shanty, where he had gone to sleep, but that a strong hand held him fast, and was shaking him roughly, while another hand was cuffing him over the head and ears.
He let out a lusty yell for mercy, and the others jumped up, fearful of what was coming.
Little Tim, in the grasp of John Hart, was receiving the soundest cuffing and mauling that had ever fallen to his lot in a somewhat varied experience with the world. It had been his misfortune, lying nearest the entrance, to be the one on whom John Hart’s heavy hand had fallen, as he entered, followed by the other three, Harry Brackett bringing up the rear.
“Oh, I’ll larn ye to scuttle other people’s boats!” cried John Hart, wrathfully. And he cuffed young Tim again, whereat that youngster howled for mercy.
“You’re a coward!” cried Joe Hinman, hotly. “Licking a boy half your size.”
“Well, you’re nearer my size,” exclaimed John Hart, dropping Little Tim and making a rush for Joe. They clinched, but the younger boy was no match for Hart, who was, too, reinforced by his three companions. Though it was noticeable that Harry Brackett discreetly held aloof until one of his companions had overpowered an adversary, when he essayed to put in a blow or two.
There was no help for them. The boys got what they had expected—and worse. They were soundly thrashed when John Hart and his companions had satisfied their vengeance.