“So that really the most sensible thing I could do, for myself and my men, ’u’d be to lash you to a keg of lead and drop you overboard--wouldn’t it, now?” The Englishman kept his eyes fixed on the middle distance of gently, heaving waters, and did not answer the question. The O’Mahony, watching his unmoved countenance with respect, made pretense of waiting for a reply, and leaned idly against the capstan to fill his pipe. After a long pause he was forced to break the silence. “It sounds rough,” he said; “but it’s the safest way out of the thing. Got a wife an’ family?” The officer turned for the fraction of an instant to scrowl indignantly, the while he snapped out: “That’s none of your d----d business!” Whistling softly to himself, with brows a trifle lifted to express surprise, The O’Mahony walked the whole length of the deck and back, pondering this reply: “I’ve made up my mind,” he announced at last, upon his return. “We’ll land you in an hour or so--or at least give you the dingey and some food and drink, and let you row yourself in, say, six or seven miles. You can manage it all right before nightfall--an’ I’ll take my chances on your startin’ the hue-an’-cry.” “Understand, I promise nothing!” interposed the other. “No, that’s all right,” said The O’Mahony. “Mind, if I thought there was any way by which you was likely to get these men o’ mine into trouble, I’d have no more scruple about jumpin’ you into the water there than I would about pullin’ a fish out of it. But, as I figure it out, they don’t stand in any danger. As for me--well, as I said, I’ll take my chances. It’ll make me a heap o’ trouble, I dare say, but I deserve that. This trip o’ mine’s been a fool-performance from the word ‘go,’ and it’s only fair I should pay for it.” The Englishman looked up at the yawl rigging, taut under the strain of filled sails; at the men huddled together forward; last of all at his captor. His eyes softened. “You’re not half a bad sort,” he said, “in--ah--spite of the gun-waste. I should think it likely that your men would never be troubled, if they go home, and--ah--behave sensibly.” The O’Mahony nodded as if a pledge had been given. “That’s what I want,” he said. “They are simply good fellows who jest went into this thing on my account.” “But in all human probability,” the officer went on, “_you_ will be caught and punished. It will be a miracle if you escape.” The O’Mahony blew smoke from his pipe with an incredulous grin, and the other went on: “It does not rest alone with me, I assure you. A minute detailed description of your person, Captain Harrier, has been in our possession for two days.” “I-gad! that reminds me,” broke in The O’Mahony, his face darkening as he spoke--“the man who gave you that name and that description is lyin’ down-stairs with a cracked skull.” “I don’t know that it is any part of my duty,” said the officer; “to interest myself in that person, or--ah--what befalls him.”