For, seeing in the blackened object whom he had helped to drive back into the cabin a foe of a calibre suited to his size, and one whom he could tackle, Bob Howlett shouted to his men--"Cut 'em down if they resist," and then to Mark. "Now you slave-catching dog, surrender, or this goes through you like a spit." CHAPTER FORTY ONE. FUN! "This" was, of course, Bob Howlett's little midshipman's dirk, a weapon worn more for ornament than use. But the boy looked as if he meant to use it, for, according to his own way of expressing himself, his monkey was up, he was bubbling over with excitement, and ready for anything. As it happened, he was exceeding his duty, for the officer in command would never have given a mere lad charge of men to make a desperate attack upon enemies who had apparently taken refuge below. But without a moment's hesitation he bore Mark back against the bulkhead, gripping him with one hand and with the other holding the point of his dirk against the lad's throat. "Here, do as I do, my lads," he shouted; and then to Mark: "Yield, you miserable Yankee hound, or I'll run you through." Excitement, the emotion and relief at finding himself among friends once more, and the prize safe, robbed Mark for a few moments of all power of speech or action; and then the absurdity of the position tickled him into the determination to hold his peace for a few minutes, and keep up the joke. "Here," he cried, imitating the Yankee captain's drawl, and speaking in a husky, disguised voice, "just mind what yew're about with that there toothpick, or yew'll be hurting somebody if yew don't cut yewrself." "Silence, you dog!" cried Bob, fiercely. "Do you surrender?" "Eh? Dew yew mean give myself up as a prisoner?" "Yes, of course, sir." "Then why didn't yew say so, mister, and not talk in that windy-bag way?" "Disarm the others, my lads," cried Bob. "Now you sir," he continued to Mark, "give up your sword." "Shan't." "What?" "I'm not going to give it up to yew. Tell 'em to send an orfycer, not one of the ship's boys." "You insolent hound!" "If yew call me a hound again, squaire, I'll kinder punch your head," said Mark, quietly. "What!" cried Bob, trying to give his prisoner a shake, but shaking himself instead. "If you dare to say that again, sir, I'll have you clapped in irons. Here, my lads, bring 'em all out, and let's have a look at the hang-dog scoundrels." "Cock-a-doodle-do!" Mark gave a fair imitation of the crowing of a cock, and Bob was furious. "How dare you, sir!" he cried. "Recollect you are prisoner to Her Majesty's ship _Nautilus_." "Commanded by Bob Howlett, Esquire," said Mark, in his natural tones, "Oh, I say, Bob, how you can bully and bounce!" Bob's hands dropped to his side, and just then a familiar voice shouted,-- "Where's Mr Howlett?" "Here, sir," said Bob, dismally.