“You and the lady’ll have to get spliced,” said the mate sternly. “Then there’ll be no tales told. A Scotch marriage is as good as any, and we’ll just lay off and put you ashore, and you can get tied up as right as ninepence.”
“Marry a coward like that?” demanded Miss Rumbolt, with spirit; “not if I know it. Why, I’d sooner marry that old man at the helm.”
“Old Bill’s got three wives a’ready to my sartin knowledge,” spoke up one of the sailors. “The lady’s got to marry Cap’n Lewis, so don’t let’s have no fuss about it.”
“I won’t,” said the lady, stamping violently.
The mutineers appeared to be in a dilemma, and, following the example of the mate, scratched their heads thoughtfully.
“We thought you liked him,” said the mate, at last, feebly.
“You had no business to think,” said Miss Rumbolt. “You are bad men, and you’ll all be hung, every one of you; I shall come and see it.”
“The cap’n’s welcome to her for me,” murmured the helmsman in a husky whisper to the man next to him. “The vixen!”
“Very good,” said the mate. “If you won’t, you won’t. This end of the ship’ll belong to you after eight o’clock of a night. Lewis, you must go for’ard with the men.”
“And what are you going to do with me after?” inquired the fair prisoner.