“Submit, Hobart,” cut Mr. Vancouver’s voice.
I turned upon him, but said nothing, and his cadaverous face whitened still more under my stare.
“We need no assistance from you, sir,” Captain Mason coldly said.
He started; a momentary flash enlivened his sunken eyes.
“Step up here in line,” I said to Hobart.
He wavered toward submission under Mr. Vancouver’s order, but my prompt suppression of that intervention thrust upon him an angry despair. “To hell with you!” he shouted to me. “You bully! You cur! Here, fellows,” addressing his comrades in line, “don’t be whipped dogs! We are free American citizens, we are! Break away!” He stepped still farther back and edged toward the table. “Stand by me! Be men! We’ll settle this thing! Come on!” The line swayed.
“Guard, re-form the prisoners in line,” I ordered. They stepped forward.
“Fight, boys! Arm yourselves at the tables!” Hobart’s fierce words thrilled the camp.
“Lively there!” I snapped to the guards. “Seize Hobart first.”
“The tables, boys!” shouted Hobart. “Romer,” he added to a husky young man of the party, “tackle Captain Mason. I’ll attend to Tudor!”