"Look at old Soup, sir," whispered Tom, excitedly. "Yes; and Taters has got it too."

"Here, hi!" shouted the American. "Whare air yew going?"

For Soup had taken a step or two forward, after looking wildly and in a puzzled way at Mark, as if wondering that he did not act, and then throwing back his head, he stood with his eyes rolling and his broad nostrils inflated, snuffling like a horse over some doubtful hay.

The next moment his fellow was following his example, and uttering something in a low, deep whisper in his own tongue.

"Guess them two n.i.g.g.e.rs o' yewrn hev got the megrims, squaire. Get 'em both aboard, lay 'em down, and hev 'em dowsed with buckets o' water."

"Stop!" cried Mark, excitedly, as he thrust back the American. "Here, my lads, what is it?"

The two blacks did not understand his words, but they did his gesture, and Soup made a bound forward to the main hatchway, uttered a low, deep roar, and stooped, pointing down.

"It ain't megrims; it's hyderyphoby," cried the American, quickly.

"He's dangerous. Get him aboard;" and as he spoke he drew a pistol from his breast, c.o.c.ked it, and took aim at the black.

But with one motion Tom Fillot whipped out his cutla.s.s, giving it so broad a sweep that the flat of the weapon struck the American's wrist, and the pistol flew out of his hand.

At that moment, in answer to a loud cry from Soup, there came a wild, excited, smothered clamour from below the hatch; and with a cry of rage, the American stooped to pick up his pistol, while his men rushed to seize hatchet and capstan bar.

Mark's dirk was out now, and he presented it at the American skipper.

"Surrender, sir!" he cried; "the game's up. Draw, my lads, and cut them down if they resist. Fillot, have off that hatch."

At a sign, the two blacks tore it open: and with the horrible vapour that arose came a wild, piteous clamour from the imprisoned slaves below.

"Guess yew're right, curse you!" said the American, in an angry snarl.

"Drop it, boys; they're too many for us this time. We're done, and it's of no use to be ugly."

"Hurray!" shouted Mark's little party, as they drove the crew below in the forecastle; and after a guard was set, Tom Fillot came back to his officer, who stood talking to the American, while that worthy lit himself a cigar.

"This is some dollars out o' my pocket, mister," he said. "Guess I wish that thar n.i.g.g.e.r had been drowned afore you brought him here. What air yew going to dew now?"

That was a question Mark was not prepared to answer, with two prizes on his hands.

CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN.

"A LAST RESOURCE."

But Mark Vandean soon began to show the American slaving skipper what he meant to "dew now," and that in times of emergency he did not mean to talk much. For turning to Tom Fillot, he gave his orders respecting the slaver's crew.

"Keep them below in the forecastle," he said; "and place the second black over them as guard."

"Ay, ay, sir!" cried Tom, and he proceeded to plant Taters on guard over the hatch, armed with a drawn cutla.s.s, to the black's intense satisfaction.

"Here, I say, mister," cried the skipper, "yew ain't going to put a n.i.g.g.e.r as sentry over a crew o' white men, air yew?"

"I have done it," said Mark, sharply.

"What! going to keep them free American citizens prisoners below like a pack o' n.i.g.g.e.rs?"

"Why not?" said Mark. "Do you think I'm going to let you and your men hatch up a scheme to retake this schooner?"

The man laughed.

"Guess yew're a sharp one, squaire. Wall, what are you going to do with me?"

"Take you aboard my ship, sir."

"And hang me at the yardarm, squaire?" said the skipper, with a grin.

"Not if you behave yourself," said Mark; "but I warn you not to try any tricks, sir, or matters may turn out unpleasantly. Here, Soup!"

He made a sign, and the great broad-shouldered black ran up to him eagerly.

"Here, my lad," said Mark, signing to the man what to do; "draw your cutla.s.s and take this gentleman on board the other schooner. You'll keep guard over him till I come."

Soup whipped out his cutla.s.s, caught the American skipper by the arm, and there was a tremendous yell.

"Say, mister, yew didn't tell him to kill me."

"No, no, Soup, you don't understand," cried Mark, arresting the man, for he had evidently taken it that he was to play the part of executioner upon the white skipper; while to judge from his aspect, he was prepared to perform his part with great gusto. Then making the men understand, he was about to despatch them over the side in one of the boats, when the American turned obstinate.

"Look here, squaire," he said, "I give in, but yew're an officer and I'm an officer. Play fair with a man. That n.i.g.g.e.r'll kill me sure as a gun if I go along with him. Seems to me I shan't be safe 'less I'm along o'

you, so I guess I'll stop here."

Mark was about to insist, but a glance at Soup was sufficient to alter his mind.

"Very well, stop for the present, sir, till I go back aboard."

"Yew're going back, then?" said the American, with a flash of the eye.

"I am, sir," said Mark, sharply, "but I'm going to leave a strong prize crew here on board, and I wouldn't advise you or your men to make any attempt at recapture. Matters might turn out, as you call it, 'ugly.'"

"All right, squaire, but I don't see where your strong prize crew is coming from," said the man, drily.

"Indeed!" said Mark. "I shall be able to show you. I can pick out half-a-dozen blacks from the other schooner who will help the man forward to keep pretty good watch over your crew, and who will not be over particular if there are any tricks."

"Oh! slaves!" said the man, with a sneer.

"There are no slaves here, sir, now. Under the British flag all men are free."

"Oh, if yew're going to talk Buncombe, squaire, I've done."

"And so have I, sir," said Mark, "for there is plenty of work wanting me."