“He is aboard the barque,” said Tim, slowly. “Will you give him up and come back to me if I get away?”
I knew he was speaking of Renshaw.
“Yes, yes,” moaned the woman; “only say you’ll forgive me, Tim. I’ll try and help you get away. You know I can handle a boat, and can come up to you on the ship if you will let me--”
He placed his hand upon her head and bade her rise. As he did so, two men came from the shadow of the houses across the street, and I immediately recognized Renshaw, followed by the bos’n, who came respectfully a few feet behind him. Old Richards drew up alongside his master, and stood ready for further orders.
“Get back to your boat, sir,” said Renshaw, addressing Tim.
The little sailor waited to see his wife upon her feet. Then he turned, and I expected to see him make a break for it, as he struck me as being pretty good at running. But I was mistaken.
With a sudden lunge, he struck Renshaw a terrific blow in the face. The next instant the bos’n sprang forward and tried to grab him, and would have succeeded but for the fact that my foot slid out between, and Richards went sprawling in the dust.
It looked as though things would take a more serious turn, for Tim had now been in open mutiny. Renshaw had fallen and struck his head on a piece of the flagging in front of the house, and lay quite insensible.
“For the Lord’s sake, Richards, let us get away,” I said, as the bos’n arose angrily to his feet.
“Into the house, quick,” cried Tim’s wife, as she led the way toward the door.