d angry at his position, Mark felt that he
must give up, and that a far more experienced officer would have done
the same. Turning to his men, he gave orders for them to go down into
the boat, and then, telling the skipper to come on board the schooner,
he gave another glance forward at the hatches, straining his ears to
catch the slightest sound, meaning, if he heard either groan or cry, to
seize the vessel at once and search. Without such a sign or sound he
dared not. It would have been overstepping his authority.

"Ready, mister? Guess I'll come in my own boat," said the American; and
he backed Mark farther to the side.

"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 niggers 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, cocked it, and took aim at the black.

But with one motion Tom Fillot whipped out his cutlass, 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 wi