to the side, and jerked him out of the gangway.

"Ketch hold!" he shouted, and the man in charge of the boat caught hold
and dragged the skipper down into the boat just as the other was rowed
alongside.

The skipper started up to revenge himself, and then sat down again to
brood over the affront, while, as rapidly as they could be transferred,
two more men were thrust into the same boat with him, and the rest into
the other boat, the fellows looking fierce, and ready for a fresh
attempt to recapture their schooner. But the arms of the English
sailors, and the fierce readiness of the blacks, Soup and Taters, awed
them, especially as their skipper made no sign, and a quarter of an hour
later captain and men were safely fastened in the forecastle, with Soup
now as sentry--Taters having been sent on board the second schooner to
see to the freed slaves, with another man to help him. Then a hawser
was made fast and sail set, the first schooner towing the second fairly
well, and some knots were sailed toward the north before the position of
the sun suggested to Mark that an anxious time was coming. For if an
attempt were made to turn the tables upon them, it would for certain be
that night.

However, Mark went on with his preparations. The blacks on both ships
were fed, every precaution taken, and, giving up all idea of sleep for
that night, a well-armed watch was set, and he paced the deck, feeling
quite an old man with his responsibility. He asked himself whether
there was anything he had left undone, whether the tow-line would hold,
and a score of other questions, while all above was calmness, and the
great stars glittered and shone down from the purply black sky.

"Are we to have a peaceful night?" he thought, as he looked over the
schooner's counter at the dark silent vessel towed behind.

Tom Fillot gave him the answer, by running aft to him, his bare feet
making a soft _pad_ _pad_ upon the deck.

"Got your shooter, sir?" he whispered.

"Yes."

"Loaded?"

"Of course; but why do you ask?" cried Mark, excitedly.

"The game has begun, sir. It will have to be the irons, after all."

Almost as he spoke there was a flash and the report of a pistol, fired
from the forecastle hatch.

CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT.

TOM FILLOT ADVISES.

There was a fierce howl of rage and a heavy crash from forward as Mark
drew and cocked his pistol, running toward the hatch with Tom Fillot
into the foul smelling smoke that hun