“You are von brave young rogue, mon jolie garçon!” exclaimed the man (the captain of a French lugger), whom Charley had seized. “You have no fear, it seems, for ghosts nor for men; but you give me von terrible gripe of my neck. Ah, not you tink we do wid you?”
“I don’t know, and don’t care,” answered Charley, recklessly; “only give me back Miss Margery—that’s what I want.”
“Ah! is it? She long way from dis, mon garçon,” said the captain, in a mocking tone; “Vould you like go see her?”
“Yes, I would,” answered Charley; “and let me tell you that if a hair of her head has been injured, you will all have to pay dearly for it.”
“Vary well, vary well,” said the Frenchman, still mocking at Charley; “Ve vill take you wid us, eh?”
“Come, enough of this, mounseer,” growled out the other man, who was only then recovering from the effects of the iron grip Tom had taken of his throat. “If we don’t look out, mates, we shall have a whole gang of the coastguard down on us while we stay chattering here. Just settle what’s to be done with the old man and the lad, and then the sooner we are away from here the better.”
“Give us up the little girl, and neither coastguard nor police shall molest you if we can help it,” exclaimed Charley.
“Then no one is following you?” asked the man.
“No,” answered Charley, without thinking of the consequences of his reply.
“Then come with me, lads, and we’ll stop up the entrance to our burrow in a way which will give plenty of work to any one to find it!” exclaimed the man; “but we’ll put irons first on the claws of this young fighting-cock and his companion.”