"Your rations shall be served out to you all in good time," replied Mark. "But we want 'em now, mister; my lads are half famished." "I tell you that you shall have them soon, so wait patiently." "Wall, don't be ugly about it, squaire. We're not ugly now. Look here, it's hot and smothering down here. Let us come up on deck and have a confab about this business. It's of no use for us to quarrel about it, so let's square matters." "I don't understand you." "Yew don't? Wall, look here; yew've took the schooner, and I s'pose she's your prize if yew say yew ain't pirates. 'Scuse me for thinking yew was, seeing as yew came in a schooner as don't look a bit like a Britannic Majesty's ship o' war." "I told you that was a prize to her Majesty's ship." "Ah, so yew did, and now yew've got another, but yew don't want a lot o' Murrican corpses aboard, squaire, so let us out, so as we can breathe. We'll make a truce with yew." The boat had come back from the second prize, and Tom Fillot walked up to look on, listening and wondering. "You mean to say that if I let you come on deck--you and your men--you will not attempt to escape or recapture the schooner?" "That's so, captain." Tom made an angry gesticulation, and took a step nearer to his young officer. "Then to show your good faith," cried Mark, "hand up all your pistols through the ventilator." There was a few moments' silence, and Tom slapped his knee softly. "Well, do you hear?" cried Mark. "Wall, captain, I'm willing," said the skipper, "but my lads here say air yew to be trusted? and what's to become o' them if they come up and yew and yewr men turn nasty, and them without weepons?" "You heard what I said, sir; hand up your pistols," said Mark, firmly. "Guess we can't do that, squaire. But look here, captain." The complimentary title did no good, for Mark turned sharply away. "See that some biscuit and water are lowered down to these people, Fillot," he cried. "Ay, ay, sir." "Biscuit--water?" roared the American skipper, his voice coming up through the ventilator with a yell. "Yew don't mean to say--" He stopped short to listen to Tom Fillot's next words. "Shall we open the hatch, sir?" "No; lower all down through the ventilator," cried Mark, from where he had walked. Tom Fillot joined him, with a grim smile on his countenance, soon after. "Hear the skipper, sir?" he said. "No; what did he say?" Tom Fillot gave the midshipman a comical look. "I don't think you'd care to hear what he said, sir. But my word, he is in a snag. Swears he'll be even with you yet, sir, and that we're a set of thieves and pirates, and not British sailors at all." "I thought you were not going to tell me what he said, Tom." "I ain't, sir. That was only some of the nice innercent bits. You'll excuse me, sir, won't you?" "Excuse what?" "Just hinting again about the irons, or setting of 'em afloat near the shore." "I'll excuse you, Tom Fillot, but I shall not do it."