While I was reflecting upon my position, I heard the portmanteau being dragged from under the seat where I had placed it. I knew I must act.
“Well, what do you want with my bag, pray?” I cried, jumping to my feet.
“Lie still, won’t you,” replied the skipper’s gruff voice; “we’re going to have our pick o’ the stones, and if you utter a word we’ll put you over where you can’t walk home.”
“Oh, indeed,” I shouted, drawing my revolver and standing erect and resolute. “Although I can’t see you, you devils, the first one who touches my bag is a dead man.”
A blow was immediately aimed at me, but fortunately it fell upon my left arm. At that moment one of the men struck a light, and I found that all four were in the little cabin with me.
The skipper, who had a life-preserver in his hand, noticed my revolver and hesitated.
“Twenty poun’ ain’t enough,” he said fiercely, “so me and my mates mean to have some of your jewellery.”
As these words fell from his lips, one of the men, a tall, burly fellow, in a dirty yellow oilskin, grasped the handle of the portmanteau as if to carry it upon deck.
“We want no jaw,” exclaimed the skipper. “Say a word, and we’ll drown you like a rat.”