He stood silently with the glass at his eye, looking at the distant sail that the _Nancy Hazlewood_ was slowly raising above the horizon. He did not seem to notice that the men had left the pumps; at least he made no remark upon it. Minute after minute passed, until at last the hull of the vessel hove in sight and showed her to be a large barque—apparently, from the cut of her sails, an English merchantman. She came within about three miles of them, but Captain Knight neither gave orders to have the course of the _Hazlewood_ altered, or signals of distress run up. Every moment Tom expected to hear such an order, but none passed the captain’s lips. Presently, he shut the tube of the glass sharply, and then he spoke. “She’s too large for us to tackle in our present condition,” said he. “Tackle!” burst out Jack. “My G—d! You didn’t think of _fighting_ that vessel, did you?” Captain Knight turned sharply upon him, as though he were about to say something; but he seemed to think better of it, for he swung on his heel, as though to enter his cabin again. Then Jack Baldwin strode directly up to him. “Captain Knight,” said he, and he did not so much as touch his hat, “a’n’t you going to signal that vessel?” His voice rang like a bell, and every man aboard of the sinking ship heard it, and listened eagerly for the captain’s answer. Captain Knight stood where he was, and looked Jack from top to toe, and back again. “No, sir,” said he, coldly, “I am not going to signal that vessel.” “Do you mean to say that you’re going to drown every man aboard this ship, as you might a cage full of rats, just because you’re too proud to signal an Englishman.” Captain Knight made no answer; he only looked at Jack and smiled, and Tom Granger thought that it was as wicked a smile as he had ever seen in all of his life. “Now, by the eternal,” roared Jack, “I’ll run the signals up myself!” “You’ll do nothing of the kind,” said Captain Knight. He spoke very quietly, but his face was as white as the other’s was red. “Won’t I? That you’ll see,” said Jack, passionately, and he made a movement to turn. “Wait a moment, sir,” said the captain, in his quiet voice. But the words were hardly out of his mouth, when, as quick as a flash, a pistol was leveled at Jack’s head, with a pair of wicked grey eyes behind it. There was a dead pause for about as long as you could count ten; the captain’s finger lay on the trigger, and every instant Tom expected to see the flash that was to come. He held his breath, for there was death in the captain’s eyes, but he did not draw the trigger. It was Tom that broke the silence. “For God’s sake, don’t shoot, captain,” cried he, from where he stood. The captain did not seem to hear him. “You mutinous scoundrel,” said he at last, “down on your knees and ask pardon!” Jack did not move. “You hear me? Down on your knees and ask pardon, or you’re a dead man!”